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"Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.

"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 cried, And clasped her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turned to chide'Twas Edwin's self that pressed.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear-
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored 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 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 chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû;
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. Dont 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 gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunchSo I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undressed,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose: 'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.

There's Howard, and Colley, 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 centred,

An acquaintance-a friend, as he called himself-entered;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled as he looked 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 pleased 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 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 brushed off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed 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 disliked in my life,
Though clogged 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 dine; (A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would 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, 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 described them by trade and by name,
They entered, and dinner was served 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 was spinach, and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where 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 vexed me most was that damned Scottish rogue,

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,

.

And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on:

Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be cursed, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." "The tripe," quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak, I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "Oh-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; There's a pasty"-"A pasty!" repeated the Jew, "I dont care if I keep a corner for't too."

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"What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot, "Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.” "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner,'" was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out-for who could mistake her? That she came with some terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop

And now that I think on 't, the story may stop.

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste;; You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning, A relish a taste-sickened over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

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