INVITATION TO DINNER.

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 Bromhamrears 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!