Oh, hast thou still those conversazioni, Where learned visitors discoursed--and fed? There came Belzoni, Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead-- And gentle Poki--and that royal pair, Of whom thou didst declare-- "Thanks to the greatest _Cooke_ we ever read-- They were--what _Sandwiches_ should be--half _bred_!" There fam'd M'Adam from his manual toil Relax'd--and freely own'd he took thy hints On "making _broth_ with _flints_"-- There Parry came, and show'd the polar oil For melted butter--Coombe with his medullary Notions about the _scullery_, And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil-- There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! Who used to swear thy book Would really look A _Delphic_ "Oracle," if laid on _Delf_-- There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd His own--and thy own--"_Magazine_ of _Taste_"-- There Wilberforce the Just Came, in his old black suit, till once he trac'd Thy sly advice to _poachers_ of black folks, That "do not break their _yolks_,"-- Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste! VI. There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore Thy _patties_--thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who call'd thee _Kitchen Addison_--for why? Thou givest rules for health and peptic pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for wills, "_Teaching us how to live and how to die!_" There came thy cousin-cook, good Mrs. Fry-- There Trench, the Thames projector, first brought on His sine _Quay_ non,-- There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and death,-- Answer'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre-- "And yet (as thou wouldst add) the French have seen A Marshal _Tureen_!" VII. Great was thy evening cluster!--often grac'd With Dollond--Burgess--and Sir Humphry Davy! 'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to taste,-- There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste For puffs--and Accum analysed a gravy. Colman, the cutter of Colman Street, 'tis said Came there, and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, (His claim to letters)--Kater, too, the Moon's Crony,--and Graham, lofty on balloons, There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated, (Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed), And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, Madame Valbrèque thrice honour'd thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,-- And even Irving spar'd a night from fame, And talk'd--till thou didst stop him in the middle, To serve round _Tewah-diddle_![219] VIII.