Ode To The Goddess Ceres.

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.             "legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL.     Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,         (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)     Adorned with somniferous poppies to show         Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.     Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee         An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches.     Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesnt bore thee),         Thou'lt read o'er the last of his--never-last speeches.     Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn         Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;     Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn,         'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.     In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us--         Reviewers, economists--fellows no doubt     That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus         And Gods of high fashion, know little about.     There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,--         Who thinks just as little of settling a nation     As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking         (What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]     There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading         Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;--     And whereas Mill Senior makes war on good breeding,         Mill Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!     In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided         Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages;--     With which of these classes we landlords have sided         Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.     For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction         And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting     That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction         To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.     On the contrary, such the "chaste notions"[3] of food         That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart,     They would scorn any law, be it ever so good,         That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!     And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,         Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination     (Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play,)[5]         Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!     Long life to the Minister!--no matter who,         Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he     Keeps the ports shut--and the people's mouths too--         We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,     And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn         To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,     Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn,         That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!