Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,

That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the noble arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell; and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possessed,
Though very poor, may still be very blessed;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE то LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter:
The haunch was a picture for painters to study-

The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy. Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:

I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtù ;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show-

But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;

Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.* To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch— So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd it best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe'sBut in parting with these I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when:
There's Howard, and Coley, and Hogarth, and Hiff—
I think they love venison-I know they love beef;
There's my countryman Higgins-oh! let him alone
For making a blunder or picking a bone.
But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;

Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centered,

An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered;

*Lord Clare's nephew.

An underbred, fine spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd as he look'd at the ven'son and me.

"What have we got here ?—Why this is good eating! Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?"

Why whose should it be?" cry'd I with a flounce; "I get these things often "--but that was a bounce: "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind- but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me: No words-I insist on't-precisely at three. We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!

We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you-a pasty, it shall, and it must,
An my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter-this venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring, I beg—my dear friend—my dear friend!”
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And "nobody with me at sea but myself," Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,

Were things that I never dislik'd in my life— Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife; So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dineA chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nineMy friend bad me welcome, but struck me quite dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke could not come ; "For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale: But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, and the other a Jew,

They're both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there were spinach and pudding made hot; In the middle a place were the pasty-was not.

Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,

And your

bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,

While the bacon and liver went merrily round.

But what vex'd me most, was that damn'd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,