And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex,' he said: But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, 'And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, 'But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. 'My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his ealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me. To win me from his tender arms Who prais'd me for imputed charms, Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. In humble, simplest habit clad, The blossom opening to the day, The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but woe to me, Their constancy was mine. Por still I tried each fickle art, And while his passion touch'd my heart, Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn In secret, where he died. 'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And there forlorn, despairing, hid, Forbid it, Heaven!' the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair-one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 'No, never, from this hour to part, We'll live, and love so true, The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too.' THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. First printed in 1765. THANKS, my lord, for your ven'son, for finer or fatter Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd on a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The white was so white, and the red 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, nounce This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce; Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, VOL. XXX. * Lord Clare's nephew. F of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; There's Cooley, and Williams, and Howard, and While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, 'Why whose should it be, sir? (cried I with a flounce) I get these things often'—but that was a bounce : "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind-but I hate ostentation.' If that be the case then, (cried he, very gay,) My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. |