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A Southey in soups, who though changing his whim, Would still have your living take pattern by him,— In short, a Procustes, who'd measure one's dishes, As t'other did beds, to his own size or wishes.

Alas, we might ask every person we meet
To talk just as we do, as well as to eat,-
Enjoin the same rest to the brisk and tir'd out,
One repair to all tenements, shatter'd or stout,
One pay for all earnings, contents for all cases,
Nay, quarrel with people for difference of faces,
And turning beside us, with angry surprise,
Say, "Why an't you like me, Sir,-nose, mouth,
and eyes?"

Each his ways, each his wants; and then taking our

food,

'Tis exercise turns it to glad-flowing blood.

We must shun, it is true, what we find doesn't suit
With our special digestions,-wine, water, or fruit;
But from all kinds of action one thing we may learn,-
That nature'll indulge us, provided we earn.
We study her fields, and find "books in the brooks ;"
We range them, ride, walk, and come safe from

the cooks.

Thus I look upon shoes whiten'd thickly with dust,
As entitling the bearer to double pye-crust;

A mere turnpike ticket's a passport to lamb;
But a row up the Thames lands you safely at ham.

But here I must finish, or else I shall run

Through a world of blithe wisdom, and never have done.

And now, after all, why this subject to you,

To whom I am bidding a long, long adieu?

To take

Why, because not content with two dinners, you see, my leave of you, I needs must have three; And so have insidiously got you to be a

True guest of a poet, and dine in idea.

So here, in your old friend the Barmecide's glass, Is to you, dear Field, and your new-married lass. May a breath from blue heaven your vessel attend, As true to the last, as you've been to your friend; And

may all meet again to grow young in our joys,

And you and I, Barron, be happy old boys.

TO CHARLES LAMB.

O THOU, Whom old Homer would call, were he living, Home-lover, thought-feeder, abundant-joke-giving; Whose charity springs from deep-knowledge, nor

swerves

Into mere self-reflections, or scornful reserves;

In short, who were made for two centuries ago, When Shakspeare drew men, and to write was to

know ;

You'll guess why I can't see the snow-covered

streets,

Without thinking of you and your visiting feats,

When you call to remembrance how you and one

more,

When I wanted it most, used to knock at my door. For when the sad winds told us rain would come

down,

Or snow upon snow fairly clogged up the town, And dun yellow fogs brooded over it's white, So that scarcely a being was seen towards night, Then, then said the lady yclept near and dear, "Now mind what I tell you,-the L.'s will be here."

So I poked up the flame, and she got out the tea, And down we both sat, as prepared as could be; And there, sure as fate, came the knock of you

two,

Then the lanthorn, the laugh, and the “

Well, how

d'ye do?"

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