GOOSEBERRY-PIE.

A PINDARIC ODE.

Gooseberry-Pie is best.

Full of the theme O Muse begin the song! What tho' the sunbeams of the West Mature within the Turtle's breast

Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue? What tho' the Deer bound sportively along O'er springy turf, the Park's elastic vest? Give them their honours due,..

But Gooseberry Pie is best.

Behind his oxen slow

The patient Ploughman plods.

And as the Sower followed by the clods

Earth's genial womb received the swelling seed.
The rains descend, the grains they grow;
Saw ye the vegetable ocean

Roll its green billows to the April gale? The ripening gold with multitudinous motion Sway o'er the summer vale?

It flows thro' Alder banks along
Beneath the copse that hides the hill;
The gentle stream you cannot see,
You only hear its melody,

The stream that turns the Mill.

Pass on a little way pass on,

And you shall catch its gleam anon; And hark! the loud and agonizing groan That makes its anguish known,

Where tortur'd by the Tyrant Lord of Meal The brook is broken on the Wheel!

Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale!
On the white bosom of the sail

Ye winds enamour'd, lingering lie!
Ye waves of ocean spare the bark !
Ye tempests of the sky!

From distant realins she comes to bring

The sugar for my Pie.

For this on Gambia's arid side

The Vulture's feet are scaled with blood,

And Beelzebub beholds with pride,

His darling planter brood.

First in the spring thy leaves were seen, Thou beauteous bush, so early green! Soon ceas'd thy blossoms little life of love. O safer than the Alcides-conquer'd tree That grew the pride of that Hesperian grove, .. No Dragon does there need for thee With quintessential sting to work alarms, And guard thy fruit so fine,

Thou vegetable Porcupine !

And didst thou scratch thy tender arms,
O Jane! that I should dine!

The flour, the sugar, and the fruit,
Commingled well, how well they suit,
And they were well bestow'd.
O Jane, with truth I praise your Pie,
And will not you in just reply
Praise my Pindaric Ode?

H

The BATTLE of PULTOWA.

On Vorskas glittering waves
The morning sun-beams play;
PULTOWA'S walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes;
Athwart the dusty vale

They strain their aching eyes,

Where to the fight moves on

The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

Him Famine hath not tamed

The tamer of the brave;

Him Winter hath not quell'd,

When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,

Frozen to their endless sleep,

He held undaunted on;

Him Pain hath not subdued,

What tho' he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war,
Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.

Go iron-hearted King!

Full of thy former fame.

Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd to thy victor sword;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resign'd his conquer'd crown;
Go iron-hearted King!

Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast,..

The death-day of thy glory Charles, hath dawn'd; Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen

That on thy shame shall set!

Now bend thine head from heaven,

Now Patkul be revenged!

For o'er that bloody Swede

Ruin hath rais'd his arm;

For ere the night descends,

His veteran host subdued,

His laurels blasted to revive no more,

He flies before the foe!