“Aye!” cried Sir John, and with a score of nods, Thoughtful of classical symposium, “There’s food for Gods! There’s nectar! there’s ambrosium! There’s food for Roman Emperors to eat-- Oh, there had been a treat (Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us) For Helio-gobble-us!” “There were a feast for Alexander’s Feast! The real sort--none of your mock or spurious!” And then he mention’d Aldermen deceased, And “Epicurius,” And how Tertullian had enjoy’d such foison; And speculated on that _verdigrease_ That isn’t poison. “Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that! Give _me_ green fat! As for your Poets with their groves of myrtles And billing turtles, Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there, A-billing in a bill of fare!” “Of all the things I ever swallow-- Good, well-dressed turtle beats them hollow-- It almost makes me wish, I vow, To have _two_ stomachs, like a cow!” And lo! as with the cud, an inward thrill Upheaved his waistcoat and disturb’d his frill, His mouth was oozing and he work’d his jaw-- “I almost think that I could eat one raw!” And thus, as “inward love breeds outward talk,” The portly pair continued to discourse; And then--as Gray describes of life’s divorce-- With “longing lingering look” prepared to walk,-- Having thro’ one delighted sense, at least, Enjoy’d a sort of Barmecidal feast, And with prophetic gestures, strange to see, Forestall’d the civic Banquet yet to be, Its callipash and callipee! A pleasant prospect--but alack! Scarcely each Alderman had turn’d his back, When seizing on the moment so propitious, And having learn’d that they were so delicious To bite and sup, From praises so high flown and injudicious,-- And nothing could be more pernicious! The turtles fell to work, and ate each other up! MORAL. Never, from folly or urbanity, Praise people thus profusely to their faces, Till quite in love with their own graces, They’re eaten up by vanity! TOWN AND COUNTRY. AN ODE. O! Well may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sigh “_O rus!_” Of London pleasures sick: My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades--my eyes detest This endless meal of brick! What joy have I in June’s return? My feet are parch’d, my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust: But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me “dust to dust.” My sun his daily course renews Due east, but with no Eastern dews; The path is dry and hot! His setting shows more tamely still, He sinks behind no purple hill, But down a chimney’s pot!