like these her cruelty assail,
Here, whisper soft your amatory tale;
The scene to sympathy the maid shall move,
And smiles propitious, crown your slighted love.

While the fresh air with fragrance, Summer fills,
And lifts her voice, heard jocund o'er the hills
All jubilant, the waving woods display
Her gorgeous gifts, magnificently gay!
The wond'ring eye beholds these waving woods
Reflected bright in artificial floods,
And still, the tufts of clust'ring shrubs between,
Like passing sprites, the nymphs and swains are seen;
'Till fancy triumphs in th'exulting breast,
And care shrinks back, astonish'd! dispossess'd!
For all breathes rapture, all enchantment seems,
Like fairy visions, and poetic dreams!

Tho' on such scenes the fancy loves to dwell,
The stomach oft a different tale will tell;
Then, leave the wood, and seek the shelt'ring roof,
And put the pantry's vital strength to proof;
The aerial banquets of the tuneful nine,
May suit some appetites, but faith! not mine;
For my coarse palate, coarser food must please,
Substantial beef, pies, puddings, ducks, and pease;
Such food, the fangs of keen disease defies,
And such rare feeding Hornsey House supplies:
Nor these alone, the joys that court us here,
Wine! generous wine! that drowns corroding care,
Asserts its empire in the glittering bowl,
And pours promethean vigor o'er the soul.
Here, too, _that_ bluff John Bull, whose blood boils high
At such base wares of foreign luxury;
Who scorns to revel in imported cheer,
Who prides in perry, and exults in beer:
On these his surly virtue shall regale,
With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale.

Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has denied,
The elegant repasts where you preside:
Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding free
In all the social luxury of Tea!
Whose essence pure, inspires such charming chat,
With nods, and winks, and whispers, and _all that_.
Here, then, while 'rapt, inspir'd, like Horace old,
We chaunt convivial hymns to Bacchus bold;
Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs,
To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes;
Or, in the winding wilds sequester'd deep,
Th'unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep;
Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles,
Chase butterflies along the echoing aisles:
Howe'er employ'd, _here_ be the town forgot,
Where fogs, and smokes, and jostling crowds _are not_.

_SONNET_.

TO ............

Thou bud of early promise, may the rose
Which time, methinks,