And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry! thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; 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 nobler 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 the 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 possess'd, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. Thanks, my Lord, for your Ven'son; for finer or fatter, Ne'er 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 shown 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. Burn.[2] To go on with my tale—as I gazed 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 liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose— 'Twas 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 H—d, and C—y, and H—rth, and H—ff, I think they love ven'son—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.