Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call “sad”,
    ’Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends;
  And few dogs have such opportunities had
    Of knowing how lions behave—­among friends.

  How that animal eats, how he moves, how he drinks,
    Is all noted down by this Boswell so small;
  And ’tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks
    That the lion was no such great things after all.

  Though he roar’d pretty well—­this the puppy allows—­
    It was all, he says, borrow’d—­all second-hand roar;
  And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows
    To the loftiest war-note the lion could pour.

  ’Tis indeed as good fun as a cynic could ask,
    To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits
  Takes gravely the lord of the forest to task,
    And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

  Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case)
    With sops every day from the lion’s own pan,
  He lifts up his leg at the noble beast’s carcase,
    And—­does all a dog, so diminutive, can.

  However the book’s a good book, being rich in
    Examples and warnings to lions high-bred,
  How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen,
    Who’ll feed on them living, and foul them when dead.

GEORGE CANNING.

(1770-1827.)

L. EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD GRANVILLE.

    Published in Fugitive Verses, and thence included among Canning’s
    works.

  Oft you have ask’d me, Granville, why
  Of late I heave the frequent sigh? 
  Why, moping, melancholy, low,
  From supper, commons, wine, I go? 
  Why bows my mind, by care oppress’d,
  By day no peace, by night no rest? 
  Hear, then, my friend, and ne’er you knew
  A tale so tender, and so true—­
  Hear what, tho’ shame my tongue restrain,
  My pen with freedom shall explain. 
    Say, Granville, do you not remember,
  About the middle of November,
  When Blenheim’s hospitable lord
  Received us at his cheerful board;
  How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled,
  Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild? 
  And mark’d you not, how many a glance
  Across the table, shot by chance
  From fair Eliza’s graceful form,
  Assail’d and took my heart by storm? 
  And mark’d you not, with earnest zeal,
  I ask’d her, if she’d have some veal? 
  And how, when conversation’s charms
  Fresh vigour gave to love’s alarms,
  My heart was scorch’d, and burnt to tinder,
  When talking to her at the winder? 
  These facts premised, you can’t but guess
  The cause of my uneasiness,
  For you have heard, as well as I,
  That she’ll be married speedily;
  And then—­my grief more plain to tell—­
  Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes,—­farewell!