19 With more than astronomic eyes 20 Yet let the glories of a night Heaven grant us no such future sight, THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.1 1 MUSE-hide his name of whom I sing, Nor speak the school from which he drew Nor place where he was born. Written on reading the following, in the obituary of the Gentleman's Magazine' for April 1789:- At Tottenham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and, in the splendour of his carriages and horses, rivalled by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospitality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his foibles, he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr A. was very fond of cockfighting, and had a favourite cock, upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid upon this cock he lost; which so enraged him, that he had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affecting, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr A., that he seized a poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who interposed; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the circumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity.' 2 That such a man once was, may seem For proof to man, what man may prove, 3 This man (for since the howling wild Disclaims him, man he must be styled) Wanted no good below; Gentle he was, if gentle birth Could make him such, and he had worth, 4 In social talk and ready jest, 5 Methinks I see him powder'd red, The mossy rosebud not so sweet; 6 Can such be cruel? Such can be With barbarous sports, whose fell delight "Twixt birds to battle train'd. 7 One feather'd champion he possess'd, Nor e'er had fought but he made flow 8 It chanced at last, when, on a day, The master storm'd, the prize was lost; He doom'd his favourite dead. 9 He seized him fast, and from the pit Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, And, "Bring me cord!" he cried; 10 The horrid sequel asks a veil ; And all the terrors of the tale That can be shall be sunk Led by the sufferer's screams aright, 11 All, suppliant, beg a milder fate Death menacing on all. 12 But vengeance hung not far remote; Big with a curse too closely pent, 13 'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, That, sent for man's instruction, bring May 1789. 'Tis hard to read amiss. TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER. HASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of a mind, TO MRS THROCKMORTON, ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, "AD LIBRUM SUUM." 1 MARIA, Could Horace have guess'd What honour awaited his ode To his own little volume address'd, The honour which you have bestow'd; Who have traced it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat He had laugh'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 2 And sneer, if you please, he had said, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, Although but a mere bagatelle; Nothing ever was written so well. Feb. 1790. TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1784. WHERE hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Roar as they might, the overbearing winds 10 |