This speech was B—t's; and, though mean in phrase, The nearest thing to prose, as Horace says, (Satire the fourth, and forty-second line) 'Twill intimate that I propose to dine Next week with B***. Muse, lend thy aid a while; For this great purpose claims a lofty style. Ere yonder sun, now glorious in the west, Has thrice three times reclined on Thetis' breast; The balmy Morn shall rise to mortal view, And from her bright locks shake the pearls of dew, These ears shall catch the music of thy shades ; This cherished frame shall drink the gladsome gales, And the fresh fragrance of thy flowery vales. A song, adorned with every rural charm, In wildflowers fertile, as thy fields of corn, I ask not Ortolans, or Chian wine, The fat of rams, or quintessence of swine. Nor El Dorado vend her golden sheep. And to the mansion-house, or council-hall, Still on her black splay feet may the huge tortoise crawl. Not Parson's butt my appetite can move, Nor, Bell, thy beer; nor even thy nectar, Jove. If B*** be happy, and in health, his guest, Whom wit and learning charm, can wish no better feast. THE HARES, A FABLE. YES, Es, yes; I grant the sons of earth Are doomed to trouble from their birth. We all of sorrow have our share; But say, Is your's without compare? Each individual of our kind Pressed with an equal load of ill, And own your lamentable case In yonder hut, that stands alone, Or see, transfixed with keener pangs, The jolly hunting band convene, The beagle's breast with ardour burns, The bounding steed the champaign spurns; And Fancy oft the game descries Through the hound's nose, and huntsman's eyes. Just then a council of the hares Had met, on national affairs. The chiefs were set; while o'er their head The furze its frizzled covering spread. Long lists of grievances were heard, "Shall horses, hounds, and hunters, still "Unite their wits to do us ill? "The youth, his parent's sole delight, "Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite, 66 Whose pulse in every vein beats strong, "Whose limbs leap light the vales along, 66 May yet, e'er noontide, meet his death, "And lie dismembered on the heath. "For youth, alas! nor cautious age, 66 Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage. “Each gale comes fraught with sounds of woe; "The morning but awakes our fears, "The evening sees us bathed in tears. "But must we ever idly grieve, "Nor strive our fortunes to relieve? "Small is each individual force, "To stratagem be our recource; "And then, from all our tribes combined, “The murderer, to his cost, may find "No foe is weak, when Justice arms, "Whom Concord leads, and Hatred warms. |