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This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ! Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.

Needless to him the tribute we bestow—

The transitory breath of fame below;
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,

While converts thank their poet in the skies.

From The haunch of Venison, etc., 1776. The epitaph, as I conjecture, was composed about the year 1770.-Thomas Parnell, s.t.p. etc. – one of the most chaste and delightful poets in the English series. With such qualifications, with the editorial services of Pope, and the biographic tribute of Goldsmith, he may be said to unite the elements of celebrity. He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, in 1718.


AN EpistLE To Lord cLARE."

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter:

* First published in 1776; but written, it is believed, in 1771. It is now printed from the second edition, also dated in 1776, which is said to be taken from the last transcript of the author. It has ten additional

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The haunch was a picture for painters to study —
The fat was so white, and the lean 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 chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù ;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show—
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They’d as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold—let me pause—don't I hear you pronounce

This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce 1 14

lines, and numerous emendations. – Robert Nugent, of Carlanstown, Westmeath, was elected a member for St., Mawes in 1741; in 1766 was created Viscount Clare; and in 1776, Earl Nugent. He was thrice married; and his surviving daughter became Marchioness of Buckingham. His odes, epistles, epigrams, etc., are much above mediocrity. He died at Dublin, and was buried at Gosfield-hall in Essex, 1788. — Line 18. Mr. Byrne = a son of George B. by Clare, sister of Lord Clare. Line 24. Monroe = Dorothy Monroe, whose various charms are celebrated in verse by Lord Townshend. Line 27. Howard= H. Howard author of The choice spirits' Museum, 1765; Coley= Colman, says Horace Walpole; H–rth = Hogarth a surgeon, of Goldensquare; Hiff= Paul Hiffernan, M.D., author of Dramatic Genius, etc. Line 29. Higgins = Captain Higgins He made a blunder by drawing our poet into a foolish affray. Line 60. And “nobody, etc.” is from one of the letters of the Duke of Cumberland, 1769. Line 77. Snarler, etc.—the assumed names of newspaper scribblers.

Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,

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and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne. To go on with my tale—as I gaz'd on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch— So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undress'd, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose— 'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's — But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when: There's Howard, and Coley, and H-rth, and Hiff— I think they love venison — I know they love beef; There's my countryman Higgins—oh let him alone For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton’s a very good treat; Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt, It’s like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in revery centered,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd : 36

An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil'd as he look’d at the venison and me.
“What have we got here ! — why, this is good eating !
Your own, I suppose—or it is in waiting !”
“Why, whose should it be '" 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,
“I’m glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me:
No words—I insist on't—precisely at three.
We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.
And, now that I think on 't, as I am a sinner |
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you—a pasty 1 it shall, and it must;
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter 1–this venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring, I beg – my dear friend—my dear friend "
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,

And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 58

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