weather; And still warm my heart in these times and this od dziw bаA I know you'll be glad to see, under my hand, That I'm still, as the phrase is, alive in the land, T When you hear, that since meeting the bright-eyed and witty, I've been asked to an absolute feast in the city!!! Yes, Barron, no more of the Nelsons and Jervises: din; H With fierce intercepting of convoys of butter, And phrases and outeries tremendous to utter, Blood, devils, and drum-sticks,--now cut it--the jowl there Brains, bones, head and shoulders, and into the sole there! The veterans too, round you-how obviously brave! What wounds and what swellings they bear to their grave! Some red as a fever, some pallid as death, Some balustrade-legg'd, others panting for breath, Some jaundiced, some jaded, some almost a jelly, And numbers with horrid contusion of belly. No wonder the wise look on dinners like these, The gape of a cod-fish, and round staring eye, pye, Don't they warn us, with signs at which heroes might shiver, Of wounds in the midriff, and scars in the liver? Even hares become bold in so desperate a case, And with hollow defiance look full in one's face. .bard This made, t'other day, a physician declare, He'd have said, “Oh, of course, every thing of the 44 17 best, Gout, headache, and fever, and pain in the chest." A glass of slow fever? I'm sure with great pleasure. A little, I'm sure, of this cough couldn't hurt you." Now all this is good, and didactic enough For those who'd make bodies mere cushions to stuff: Excess is bad always;—but there's a relation Of this same Excess, sometimes called Moderation, Who wonders, and smiles, and concludes you a glutton, VOL. II. 10 If helped more than he is to turnips and mutton A Southey in soups, who though changing his whim, Would still have your living take pattern by him ;-40 In short, a Procrustes, who'd measure one's dishes, As t'other did beds, to his own size or wishes. Alas, we might ask every person we meet 66 Each his ways, each his wants; and then taking our food, 'Tis exercise turns it to glad-flowing blood. We must shun, it is true, what we find doesn't suit With our special digestions,-wine, water, or fruit; But from all kinds of action one thing we may learn, That nature'll indulge us, provided we earn. We study her fields, and find "books in the brooks;" We range them, ride, walk, and come safe from the cooks. Thus I look upon shoes whiten'd thickly with dust, And now, after all, why this subject to you, see, To take my leave of you, I needs must have three; So here, in your old friend the Barmecide's glass, TO CHARLES LAMB. O THOU, whom old Homer would call, were he living, Home-lover, thought-feeder, abundant-joke-giving; Whose charity springs from deep knowledge, nor swerves Into mere self-reflections, or scornful reserves; You'll guess why I can't see the snow-covered streets, Without thinking of you and your visiting feats, When you call to remembrance how you and one more,41 When I wanted it most,42 used to knock at my door. For when the sad winds told us rain would come down, Or snow upon snow fairly clogged up the town, "Now mind what I tell you, the Lambs will be here." T So I poked up the flame, and she got out the tea, And down we both sat, as prepared as could be; And there, sure as fate, came the knock of you two. Then the lantern, the laugh, and the "Well, how d'ye do?" Then your palm tow'rds the fire, and your face turned to me, And shawls and great-coats being-where they should be, And due "never saw's" being paid to the weather, Of Marvell, wit, patriot, and poet, who knew Of Spenser, who wraps you, wherever you are, But now, Charles—you never (so blissful you deem me) Come lounging, with twirl of umbrella, to see me. In vain we look out like the children in Thomson, soon." |