Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, Where learnëd 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 famed 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 thee polar oil For melted butter--Combe with his medullary Notions about the _Skullery_, 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 traced Thy sly advice to _Poachers_ of Black Folks,-- That “do not break their _yolks_,”-- Which huff’d him home, in grave disgust and haste! 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_?” Great was thy Evening Cluster!--often graced With Dollond--Burgess--and Sir Humphry Davy! ’Twas there M’Dermot first inclined to Taste,-- There Colburn learn’d the art of making paste For puffs--and Accum analysed a gravy. Colman--the Cutter of Coleman 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 stalked 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,-- The Dibdins,--Tom, Charles, Frognall, came with tuns Of poor old books, old puns! And even Irving spared a night from fame, And talk’d--till thou didst stop him in the middle,