Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe a stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,
With answering care opprest:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd,
"The sorrows of thy breast?
From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove:
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?
Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep!
And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's jest:
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view:
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
"And, ah, forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch, forlorn," she cry'd ;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray:
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.
To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth or power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heav'n refin'd,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.
The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
For still I try'd each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.
Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret where he dy'd.
But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die!
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
"Forbid it, heaven!" the Hermit cry'd,
And clasp'd her to his breast;
The wondering fair-one turn'd to chide;
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
"Turn, Angelina, ever dear;
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor❜d to love and thee!
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life-my all that's mine!
No, never, from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too."
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON;
A poetical Epistle to Lord Clare.
THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or
Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Tho' my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting,
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu;
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 fry'd 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. Burn.*
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 best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; "Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monro's; But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff,
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 center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison 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?" cried 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
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 a dinner.
What say you-a pasty; it shall, and it must,
And 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."
Tho' 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,
Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendor to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.
When come to the place where we were all to dine,
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by uine)
Vol. II.
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