Invitation To Dinner. Addressed To Lord Lansdowne.

September, 1818.     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 Bromham[1] rears 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!