VII.

Great was thy Evening Cluster!—­often grac’d
With Dollond—­Burgess—­and Sir Humphry Davy! 
’Twas there M’Dermot first inclin’d to Taste,—­
There Colborn learn’d the art of making paste
For puffs—­and Accum analyzed a gravy. 
Colman—­the Cutter of Coleman Street, ’tis said
Came there,—­and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head,
(His claim to letters)—­Kater, too, the Moon’s
Crony,—­and Graham, lofty on balloons,—­
There Croly stalk’d with holy humor heated,
Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed—­
  And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ,
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,—­
Madame Valbreque thrice honor’d thee, and came
With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,—­
The Dibdins,—­Tom, Charles, Frognall,—­came with tuns
Of poor old books, old puns! 
And even Irving spar’d a night from fame,—­
And talk’d—­till thou didst stop him in the middle,
      To serve round Tewah-diddle!

VIII.

Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye! 
So let them:—­thou thyself art still a Host! 
  Dibdin—­Cornaro—­Newton—­Mrs. Fry! 
  Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!—­Lovelass—­and Weber,
  Matthews in Quot’em—­Moore’s fire-worshipping Gheber—­
Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross’d! 
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast,
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling,—­
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion! 
      Thou art, sans question,
The Corporation’s love its Doctor Darling! 
Look at the Civic Palate—­nay, the Bed
  Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying
    Illustrations of Lying! 
Ninety square feet of down from heel to head
    It measured, and I dread
Was haunted by a terrible night Mare,
A monstrous burthen on the corporation!—­
Look at the Bill of Fare for one day’s share,
Sea-turtles by the score—­Oxen by droves,
Geese, turkeys, by the flock—­fishes and loaves
  Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation
Was making up the huge man-mountain’s ration!

IX.

Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting Demon from great Garratt’s breast—­
      (His honor seems to rest!—­)
And what is thy reward?—­Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service? 
      Alas! not even
The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis!—­
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak
Before the worshipful the Common Council
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,)
Thou should’st not miss thy Freedom, for a week,
Richly engross’d on vellum:—­Reason urges
That he who rules our cookery—­that he
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess!