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And savage men more murd'rous still than they; Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd,
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Far different these from every former scene,

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, The breezy covert of the warbling grove,

Redress the rigours of th’inclement clime; That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that part- Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gaja; ing day,

Teach him, that states of native strength postest

, - That call'd them from their native walks away; Though very poor, may still be very blest; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain While self-dependent power can time defy,
For seats like these beyond the western main ; As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep.
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe;

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 1763. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or later The fond companion of his helpless years,

Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,

The haunch was a picture for painters to study, And left a lover's for a father's arms.

The fat was so white, and the lean was so reddy; With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce bez

regretting
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;
And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief,

I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view, In all the silent manliness of grief.

To be shown to my friends as a piece of verta;

As in some Irish houses, where things are so $9
O, luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee !

One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:

But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride is, How do thy potions with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fr’die

But hold—let me pause-don't I hear you pronouncer Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce; Boast of a florid vigour not their own.

Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, At every draught more large and large they grow, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to bý. A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

But, my lord, it's no bounce. I protest in my tutan Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,

It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Barna Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun,

To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the banned

,

I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunek; And half the business of destruction done;

So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
Even now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.

To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; That idly waiting flaps with every gale,

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's Downward they move, a melancholy band,

But in parting with these I was Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the

when. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there;

There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-, And piety with wishes plac'd above,

I think they love venison - I know they love teci. And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let hin

alone, And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

For making a blunder, or picking a bone. Unfit in these degen’rate times of shame,

But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;

Your very good mutton's a very good treat; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd;

Such dainties to them their health it might hurt, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, That found'st me poor at first, and keep’st me so;

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, et

ter'd;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me

puzzled again,

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<< What have we got here?-why, this is good eating! A prettier dinner I never set eyes on; Your own I suppose- :-or is it in waiting?"

Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, “Why, whose should it be?” cried I with a flounce- But l've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst.” “ I get these things often;" but that was a bounce : “ The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate “ Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, cheek, Are pleas'd to be kind; but I hate ostentation.” “ I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week:

“ If that be the case then,” cried he, very gay, I like these here dinners so pretty and small; * I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.” To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; “O-Oh!" quoth my friend, “ he'll come on in a No words—I insist on’t-precisely at three:

trice, We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : be there;

There's a pasty”—“ A pasty!" repeated the Jew; My acquaintauce is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. “ I don't care, if I keep a corner for't too.” And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, “ What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echo'd the Scot; We wanted this venison to make out the dinner! Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.” What say you—a pasty, it shall and it must, “We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. “ We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. flere, porter—this venison with me to Mile-end; While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, No stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear friend!” With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, But we quickly found out, for who could mistake And “nobody with me at sea but myself;"

her? Though I could not help thinking my gentleman That she came with some terrible news from the hasty,

baker: Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. Sad Philomel thus—but let similes dropSo next day in due splendour to make my approach, And now that I think on't, the story may stop. I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,

When come to the place where we all were to dine To send such good verses to one of your taste; 'A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine,) You've got an odd something-a kind of discernMy friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite ingdumb,

A relish-a taste-sicken'd over by learning; With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not At least, it's your temper, as very well known, come;

That you think very slightly of all that's your own: For “ I knew it,” he cried, “ both eternally fail, So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, l'he one with his speeches, and th' other with You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

Thrale;
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party,
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.

RETALIATION.
The one is a Scotsman, the other a Jew,
l'hey're both of them merry, and authors like you; Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge."

united. While thus he described them by trade and by name, If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen,

dish. At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; At the sides there was spinage and pudding made Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; hot;

Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, in the middle a place where the pasty-was not. And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their saNow, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian- Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain; so there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: While the bacon and liver went merrily round: Our Garrick's a sallad; for in him we see Bot what vex'd me most, was that d-m'd Scottish Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: rogue,

To make out the dinner, full certain I am, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; brogue.

That Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule, Ind, “ madam," quoth he, “ may this bit be my Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. poison,

At a dinner so various, at such a repast,

vour:

ARMSTRONG-A.D. 1709-79.

THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH.

BOOK I.

AIR.

Daughter of Pæon, queen of every joy, Hygeia ; whose indulgent smile sustains The various race luxuriant nature pours, And on th' immortal essences bestows Immortal youth ; auspicious, O descend! Thou cheerful guardian of the rolling year, Whether thou wanton’st on the western gale, Or shak’st the rigid pinions of the north, Diffusest life and vigour through the tracts Of air, through earth, and ocean's deep domain. When through the blue serenity of heaven Thy power approaches, all the wasteful host Of pain and sickness, squalid and deform’d, Confounded sink into the lothesome gloom, Where in deep Erebus involv'd the fiends Grow more profane. Whatever shapes of death, Shook from the hideous chambers of the globe, Swarm through the shudd'ring air: whatever

plagues
Or meagre famine breeds, or with slow wings
Rise from the putrid watery element,
The damp waste forest, motionless and rank,
That smothers earth and all the breathless winds,
Or the vile carnage of th’inhuman field:
Whatever baneful breathes the rotteu south;
Whatever ills th' extremes or sudden change
Of cold and hot, or moist and dry produce;
They fly thy pure effulgence: they and all
The secret poisons of avenging heaven,
And all the pale tribes halting in the train
Of vice and heedless pleasure; or if aught
The comet's glare amid the burning sky,
Mournful eclipse, or planets ill-combin'd,
Portend disastrous to the vital world ;
Thy salutary power averts their rage,
Averts the general bane: and but for thee
Nature would sicken, nature soon would die.

Without thy cheerful active energy
No rapture swells the breast, no poet sings,
No more the maids of Helicon delight.
Come then with me, O goddess heavenly gay!
Begin the song; and let it sweetly flow,
And let it wisely teach thy wholesome laws:
“ How best the fickle fabric to support
Of mortal man; in healthful body how
A healthful mind the longest to maintain.”
"Tis hard, in such a strife of rules, to choose
The best, and those of most extensive use;

Harder in clear and animated song
Dry philosophic precepts to convey.
Yet with thy aid the secret wilds I trace
Of nature, and with daring steps proceed
Through paths the Muses never trod before.

Nor should I wander doubtful of my way,
Had I the lights of that sagacious mind
Which taught to check the pestilential fire,
And quell the deadly Python of the Nile.
O thou belov'd by all the graceful arts,
Thou long the fav’rite of the healing powers,
Indulge, 0 Mead! a well-design'd essay,
Howe'er imperfect; and permit that I
My little knowledge with my country share,
Till you the rich Asclepian stores unlock,
And with new graces diguify the theme.

Ye who amid this feverish world would wear
A body free of pain, of cares a mind,
Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air;
Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke
And volatile corruption, from the dead,
The dying, sick’ning, end the living world
Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome
With dim mortality. It is not air
That from a thousand lungs reeks back to this,
Sated with exhalations rank and fell,
The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw
'of nature; when from shape and texture she
Relapses into fighting elements :
It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass
Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things.
Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath,
With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more
The solid frame than simple moisture can.
Besides, immur'd in many a sullen bay
That never felt the freshness of the breeze,
This slumbʼring deep remains, and ranker grows
With sickly rest: and (though the lungs abhor
To drink the dun fuliginous abyss)
Did not the acid vigour of the mine,
Roll’d from so many thund'ring chimnies, tame
The putrid steams that overswarm the sky;
This caustic venom would perhaps corrode
Those tender cells that draw the vital air,
In vain with all their unctuous rills bedew'd;
Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn
In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin
Imbib’d, would poison the balsamic blood,
And rouse the heart to every fever's rage.
While yet you breathe, away; the rural wilds
Invite ; the mountains call you, and the vales,
The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial breeze

That fans the ever undulating sky;

Skin ill-perspiring, and the purple flood A kindly sky! whose fost'ring power regales In languid eddies loitering into phlegm. Man, beast, and all the vegetable reign.

Yet not alone from humid skies we pine;
Find then some woodland scene where nature smiles For air may be too dry. The subtle heaven,
Benign, where all her honest children thrive. That winnows into dust the blasted downs,
To us there wants not many a happy seat!

Bare and extended wide without a stream,
Look round the smiling land, such numbers rise Too fast imbibes th' attenuated lymph,
We hardly fix, bewilderd in our choice;

Which, by the surface, from the blood exhales. See where enthron’d in adamantine state,

The lungs grow rigid, and with toil essay
Proud of her bards, imperial Windsor sits ;

Their flexible vibrations; or, inflam’d,
There choose thy seat, in some aspiring grove Their tender ever-moving structure thaws.
Fast by the slowly-winding Thames; or where Spoil'd of its limpid vehicle, the blood
Broader she laves fair Richmond's green retreats, A mass of lees remains, a drossy tide
(lli chmond that sees an hundred villas rise

That slow as Lethe wanders through the veins: Rural or gay.) O! from the summer's rage,

Unactive in the services of life, 0! wrap me in the friendly gloom that hides Unfit to lead its pitchy current through Um brageous Ham!-But, if the busy town

The secret mazy channels of the brain. Att ract thee still to toil for power or gold,

The melancholic fiend (that worst despair Sweetly thou mayst thy vacant hours possess of physic) hence the rust-complexion'd man In Hampstead, courted by the western wind; Pursues, whose blood is dry, whose fibres gain Or Greenwich, waving o'er the winding flood; Too stretch'd a tone: and hence in climes adust Or lose the world amid the sylvan wilds

So sudden tumults seize the trembling nerves, Of Dulwich, yet by barbarous arts unspoil'd. And burning fevers glow with double rage. Green rise the Kentish hills in cheerful air;

Fly, if you can, these violent extremes
But on the marshy plains that Lincoln spreads Of air: the wholesome is nor moist nor dry.
Build not, nor rest too long thy wand'ring feet. But as the power of choosing is deny'd
For on a rustic throne of dewy turf,

To half mankind, a further task ensues ;
With baneful fogs her aching temples bound, How best to mitigate these fell extremes,
Quartana there presides; a meagre fiend

How breathe, unhurt, the withering element, Begot by Eurus, when his brutal force

Or hazy atmosphere: though custom moulds Compress'd the slothful naiad of the fens.

To ev'ry clime the soft Promethean clay; From such a mixture sprung, this fitful pest

And he who first the fogs of Essex breath'd With fev'rish blasts subdues the sick’ning land: (So kind his native air) may in the fens Cold tremors come, with mighty love of rest, Of Essex from inveterate ills revive, Convulsive yawnings, lassitude, and pains

At pure Montpelier or Bermuda caught. That sting the burden'd brows, fatigue the loins, But if the raw and oozy heaven offend, And rack the joints and every torpid limb;

Correct the soil, and dry the sources up Then parching heat succeeds, till copious sweats Of watery exhalation : wide and deep O'erflow: a short relief from former ills.

Conduct your trenches through the quaking bog; Beneath repeated shocks the wretches pine;

Solicitous, with all your winding arts, The vigour sinks, the habit melts away;

Betray th' unwilling lake into the stream; The cheerful, pure, and animated bloom

And weed the forest, and invoke the winds Dies from the face, with squalid atrophy

To break the toils where strangled vapours lie; Devour'd, in sallow melancholy clad.

Or through the thickets send the crackling flames. And oft the sorceress, in her sated wrath,

Meantime, at home, with cheerful fires dispel Resigns them to the furies of her train;

The humid air: and let your table smoke The bloated hydrops; and the yellow fiend, With solid roast or bak'd; or what the herds Ting'd with her own accumulated gall.

Of tamer breed supply; or what the wilds In quiest of sites, avoid the mournful plain

Yield to the toilsome pleasures of the chase. Where osiers thrive, and trees that love the lake; Generous your wine, the boast of rip'ning years ; Where many lazy muddy rivers flow:

But frugal be your cups: the languid frame, Nor, for the wealth that all the Indies roll,

Vapid and sunk from yesterday's debauch, Fix near the marshy margin of the main :

Shrinks from the cold embrace of watery heavens. For from the humid soil and wat'ry reign

But neither these, nor all Apollo's arts,
Eternal vapours rise; the spungy air

Disarm the dangers of the drooping sky,
For ever weeps: or, turgid with the weight Unless with exercise and manly toil
Of waters, pours a sounding deluge down.

You brace your nerves, and spur the lagging blood. Skies such as these let every mortal shun

The fattning clime let all the sons of ease Who dreads the dropsy, palsy, or the gout,

Avoid; if indolence would wish to live, Tertian, corrosive scurvy, or moist catarrh:

Go, yawn and loiter out the long slow year Or any other injury that grows

In fairer skies. If droughty regions parch From raw-spun fibres idle and unstrung,

The skin and lungs, and bake the thickening blood; Deep in the waving forest choose your seat, O'erhung, defends you from the blust'ring north, Where fuming trees refresh the thirsty air;

And bleak affliction of the peevish east. And wake the fountains from their secret beds, 0! when the growling winds contend, and all And into lakes dilate the rapid stream.

The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm; Here spread your gardens wide ; and let the cool, To sink in warm repose, and hear the din The moist relaxing vegetable store,

Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights Prevail in each repast: your food supplied

Above the luxury of vulgar sleep. By bleeding life, be gently wasted down,

The murmuring rivulet, and the hoarser strain By soft decoction, and a mellowing heat,

Of waters rushing o'er the slippery rocks, To liquid balm; or, if the solid mass

Will nightly lull you to ambrosial rest. You choose, tormented in the boiling wave;

To please the fancy is no trifling good, That through the thirsty channels of the blood Where health is studied; for whatever mores A smooth diluted chyle may ever flow.

The inind with calm delight, promotes the jest The fragrant dairy, from its cool recess,

And natural movements of the harmonious frase Its nectar, acid or benign, will pour,

Besides the sportive brook for ever shakes To drown your thirst; or let the mantling bowl The trembling air; that floats from hill to bill, Of keen Sherbet the fickle taste relieve:

From vale to mountain, with incessant change For with the viscous blood the simple stream Of purest element, refreshing still Will hardly mingle; and fermented cups

Your airy seat, and uninfected gods. Oft dissipate more moisture than they give. Chiefly for this I praise the man who builds Yet when pale seasons rise, or winter rolls

High on the breezy ridge, whose losty sides His horrors o'er the world, thou mayst indulge Th'ethereal deep with endless billows chases. In feasts more genial, and impatient broach

His purer mansion nor contagious years The mellow cask. Then, too, the scourging air Shall reach, nor deadly putrid airs annoy. Provokes to keener toils than sultry droughts

But may no fogs, from lake or fenny plain, Allow. But rarely we such skies blaspheme. Involve my hill! And wheresoe'er you build; Steep'd in continual rains, or with raw fogs Whether on sun-burnt Epsom, or the plains Bedew'd, our seasons droop; incumbent still Wash’d by the silent Lee; in Chelsea low, A ponderous heaven o'erwhelms the sinking soul. Or high Blackheath, with wint'ry winds assailid; Lab’ring with storms, in heapy mountains rise

Dry be your house: but airy more than warm. Th’imbattled clouds, as if the Stygian shades Else every breath of ruder wind will strike Had left the dungeon of eternal night,

Your tender body through with rapid pains; Till black with thunder all the south descends. Fierce coughs will teaze you, hoarseness bied your Scarce in a showerless day the heavens indulge

voice, Our melting clime; except the baleful east Or moist Gravedo load your aching brows. Withers the tender spring, and sourly checks These to defy, and all the fates that dwell The fancy of the year. Our fathers talk

In cloister'd air, tainted with steaming life, Of summers, balmy airs, and skies serene.

Let lofty ceilings grace your ample rooms; Good heaven! for what unexpiated crimes

And still at azure noontide may your donne This dismal change! The brooding elements At every window drink the liquid sky. Do they, your powerful ministers of wrath,

Need we the sunny situation bere, Prepare some fierce exterminating plague? And theatres open to the south commend Or is it fix'd in the decrees above,

Here, where the morning's misty breath jafsets That lofty Albion melt into the main !

More than the torrid noon ? how sickly grow, Indulgent nature, 0 dissolve this gloom!

How pale the plants in those ill-fated vales, Bind in eternal adamant the winds

That, circled round with the gigantic heap That drown or wither: give the genial west Of mountains, never felt, nor ever hope To breathe, and in its turn, the sprightly north: To feel the genial vigour of the sun! And may once more the circling seasons rule While on the neighbouring hill the rose infanes The year; nor mix in every monstrous day. The verdant spring; in virgin beauty blows Meantime, the moist malignity to shun

The tender lily, languishingly sweet; of burden'd skies; mark where the dry champaign Swells into cheerful hills ; where marjoram

O'er every hedge the wanton woodbine roves,

And autumn ripens in the summer's ray. And thyme, the love of bees, perfume the air;

Nor less the warmer living tribes demand And where the cynorrhodon with the rose

The fost'ring sun : whose energy divine For fragrance vies; for in the thirsty soil

Dwells not in mortal fire ; whose gen'rous hest Most fragrant breathe the aromatic tribes.

Glows through the mass of grosser elements, There bid thy roofs, high on the basking steep,

And kindles into life the pond'rous spheres. Ascend, there light thy hospitable fires :

Cheer'd by thy kind invigorating warmth, And let them see the winter morn arise,

We court thy beams, great majesty of day! The summer evening blushing in the west :

If not the soul, the regent of this world, While with umbrageous oaks the ridge behind First-born of Heaven, and only less than God!

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