The dinner comes, and down they sit :
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,

Yet, not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;

Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins.

66 Come, neighbours, we must wag-" The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs, that he has lost

By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one,

66

66

In pulpit none shall hear :

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,

O why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say,

Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.

CowPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but silence honour'd thee,
Mute as e'er gaz'd on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

Author of "The Botanic Garden."

Two Poets*, (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree)

Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!
Conspire to honour Thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known

The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

We therefore pleas'd extol thy song,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as strong,
And learned as 'tis sweet.

Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompaniert

these lines,

222

LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN.

No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would-they must at thine.

But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundic'd eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,

And howsoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,

Unworthy of his own.