September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real;

  That poets live among the stars so,

Their very dinners are ideal,—

  (And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)—

For instance, that we have, instead

  Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes,

First course—a Phoenix, at the head.

  Done in its own celestial ashes;

At foot, a cygnet which kept singing

All the time its neck was wringing.

Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,

Or any such like learned fowl:

Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,

When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.

Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath,

  Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;

And nightingales, berhymed to death—

  Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able

To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;

But as for me, who've long been taught

  To eat and drink like other people;

And can put up with mutton, bought

  Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple—

If Lansdowne will consent to share

My humble feast, tho' rude the fare,

Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings

From Attica's salinest springs,

'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,

Beneath his influence brightening up,

Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove,

Will sparkle fit for gods above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.