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Why, because not content with two dinners, you see,
To take 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.


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


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


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 Li'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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Then your palm tow'rds the fire, and your face

turned to me,

And shawls and great-coats being where they

should be, And due “never saw’s” being paid to the weather, We cherished our knees, and sat sipping together, And leaving the world to the fogs and the fighters, Discussed the pretensions of all sorts of writers; Of Shakspeare's coevals, all spirits divine; Of Chapman, whose Homer's a fine rough old wine; Of Marvel, wit, patriot, and poet, who knew How to give, both at once, Charles and Cromwell

their due; Of Spenser, who wraps you, wherever you are, In a bow'r of seclusion beneath a sweet star; Of Richardson too, who afflicts us so long, We begin to suspect him of nerves over strong;


In short, of all those who give full-measur'd page, Not forgetting Sir Thomas, my ancestor sage, Who delighted (so happy were all his digestions) In puzzling his head with impossible questions.

But now, Charles--you never (so blissful you deem

me) Come lounging, with twirl of umbrella, to see me. In vain have we hoped to be set at our ease By the rains, which you know used to bring Lamb

and pease ;

In vain we look out like the children in Thomson, And

say, in our innocence, “ Surely he'll come soon.”

'Tis true, I do live in a vale, at my will,
With sward to my gateway, and trees on the hill :
My health too gets on; and now autumn is nigh,
The sun has come back, and there's really blue sky,.

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