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This speech was Bt'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;
Ere thrice three times, from old Tithonus' bed,
Her charms all glowing with celestial red,
The balmy Morn shall rise to mortal view,

And from her bright locks shake the pearls of dew,
These eyes, O B***, shall hail thy opening glades,
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.
And (for I know the Muse will come along)
To B*** I mean to meditate a song:

A song, adorned with every rural charm,
Trim as thy garden, ample as thy farm,
Sweet as thy milk, and brisk as bottled beer,
Wholesome as mutton, and as water clear,

In wildflowers fertile, as thy fields of corn,
And frolicsome as lambs, or sheep new shorn.

I ask not Ortolans, or Chian wine,

The fat of rams, or quintessence of swine.
Her spicy stores let either India keep,

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.



YES, 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?
Look round the world; perhaps you'll find

Each individual of our kind

Pressed with an equal load of ill,
Equal at least. Look further still,

And own your lamentable case
Is little short of happiness.

In yonder hut, that stands alone,
Attend to Famine's feeble moan;
Or view the couch where Sickness lies,
Mark his pale cheek and languid eyes,
His frame by strong convulsion torn,
His struggling sighs and looks forlorn.

Or see, transfixed with keener pangs,
Where o'er his hoard the miser hangs.
Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares,
Nor Slumber's balmy blessing shares;
Despair, Remorse, and Terror, roll
Their tempests on his harassed soul.
But here, perhaps, it may avail
To enforce our reasoning with a tale.
Mild was the morn, the sky serene,

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,
And general discontent appeared.
"Our harmless race shall every savage,
"Both quadruped and biped, ravage?

"Shall horses, hounds, and hunters, still

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"The youth, his parent's sole delight,
"Whose tooth the dewy lawns invite,
“Whose pulse in every vein beats strong,
"Whose limbs leap light the vales along,


May yet, e'er noontide, meet his death,

"And lie dismembered on the heath.

"For youth, alas! nor cautious age,

“Nor strength, nor speed, eludes their rage. "In every field we meet the foe,


Each gale comes fraught with sounds of woe;

“The morning but awakes our fears,

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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.

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