“Say, MASTER ALLEN, hast thou seen The connoisseuring race, Breathless, amazed, on Dulwich-green, My lines of beauty trace? Who foremost now delights to stop To look at God’s Gift[34] picture shop; Is’t _Nash_, or _Smirke_, or _Gwilt_? Do not the knowing loungers cry, ‘My eye!’ at my sarcophagi, And guess by whom ’twas built!” * * * * * ―――― ODE ON THE DISTANT PROSPECT OF A GOOD DINNER. Ye distant dishes, sideboards blest With Halford’s peptic pill―― Where grateful gourmands still attest Illustrious Robert’s skill; And ye that, girt with _legumes_ round, Or in the purest pastry bound, On silvery surface lie; Where _pâté_――_salmi_――_sauce tomate_, _Fricandeau_ framed with nicest art Attract the glist’ning eye. Ah! richest scent! perfume beloved! Blest odours breathed in vain―― Where once my raptured palate roved, And fain would rove again. I feel the gales that now ascend, A momentary craving lend―― As curling round the vapours seem My faded faculties t’excite, Restore my long-pall’d appetite, And soothe me with their steam. Say, Monsieur Ude, for thou hast seen Full many a jovial set Discoursing on _la bonne cuisine_, In social union met―― Who foremost now prepare to pray _Des cotelettes à la chicorée?_ _Sauté de saumon――qui l’attend?_ What young Amphitryons now vote Nothing like _pigeons en compote_, Or taste the _vol-au-vent_? While some at lighter viands aim, And towards digestion lean, _Poularde aux truffes_, or _à la crème_, Or _agneau aux racines_; Some hardier epicures disdain The distant chance of doubtful pain, And _queue d’esturgeon_ try; Still as they eat they long to cease, They feel a pang as every piece Passes their palate by. But lo! the _entremets_ are placed To greet the gourmand’s nose, Bedeck’d with all the pride of paste, Confective prowess shows. One earnestly devotes his praise To _beignets a la lyonnaise_, Others survey with mix’d delight _Gelées d’orange_――_de marasquin_; While some, with looks ecstatic, scan The _soufflé’s_ buoyant height. Best fair is theirs by ―――― fed, Less pleasing to digest; The taste soon gone, and in its stead, Oppression on the chest. Theirs joyous hours, and jocund nights, Wit’s playful sallies, fancy’s flights, And goodly cheer as e’er was seen―― The aged Hock――the Champagne bright, Burgundia’s best, and Claret light, The vintage of nineteen. Alas! regardless of their doom Each rich ragout they take, No sense have they of pains to come, Of head, or stomach-ache. Yet see how all around them press, Th’ attendants of each night’s excess; Fell Indigestion’s followers vile: Ah! show them where the hateful crew Scoff calomel and pills of blue, Ah! tell them they have bile.