THE GROANS OF THE TANKARD. Dulci digne mero! HORAT. OF strange events I sing, and portents dire; And what she says, with pious awe receive. 'Twas at the solemn, silent, noon-tide hour, For solid pudding and substantial pie; When hungry poets the glad summons own, And our chilled hearts recoil with startling fears: No finger touched it, and no hand was near. At length the' indignant vase its silence broke, First heaved deep hollow groans, and then distinctly spoke. "How changed the scene!-for what unpardoned crimes "Have I survived to these degenerate times? "I, who was wont the festal board to grace, "And 'midst the circle lift my honest face "White o'er with froth, like Etna crowned with snow, "Which mantled o'er the brown abyss below, "Where Ceres mingled with her golden store "And all the furry tribe my worth declare; "And the keen Sportsman oft, his labours done, "To me retreating with the setting sun, 66 Deep draughts imbibed, and conquered land and sea, "And overthrew the pride of France-by me. "Let meaner clay contain the limpid wave, "The clay for such an office nature gave; "Let China's earth, enriched with coloured stains, 66 Penciled with gold, and streaked with azure veins, "The grateful flavour of the Indian leaf, "Or Mocho's sunburnt berry glad receive : "The nobler metal claims more generous use, And mine should flow with more exalted juice. "Did I for this my native bed resign "In the dark bowels of Potosi's mine? "And dragged to regions of the upper day? "For this the rage of torturing furnace bore, "From foreign dross to purge the brightening ore? "For this have I endured the fiery test, "And was I stamped for this with Britain's lofty crest? "Unblest the day, and luckless was the hour, "Which doomed me to a Presbyterian's power: Whose moping sons no jovial orgies keep; "Where evening brings no summons-but to sleep; "No Carnival is even Christmas here, 66 And one long Lent involves the meagre year. "Bear me, ye powers! to some more genial scene, "With double chin, and paunch of portly grace, "Or to some spacious mansion, Gothic, old, Where Comus' sprightly train their vigils hold; "There oft exhausted, and replenished oft, “O let me still supply the' eternal draught, "Till Care within the deep abyss be drowned, "And Thought grows giddy at the vast profound!" More had the goblet spoke; but lo! appears An ancient Sibyl, furrowed o'er with years. |