Thine is the charm, to thee they owe the grace.
Life's chaplet blossoms only where thou art,
And pleasure's year attains its sunny spring;
And where thy smile is not, our joy is but a sigh.—E. B. C.
ADDENDA.
Philemon. (Book vii. § 32, p. 453.)
Cook. A longing seizes me to come and tell
To earth and heaven, how I dress'd the dinner.
By Pallas, but 'tis pleasant to succeed
In every point! How tender was my fish!
How nice I served it up, not drugg'd with cheese,
Nor brown'd above! It look'd the same exactly,
When roasted, as it did when still alive.
So delicate and mild a fire I gave it
To cook it, that you'll scarcely credit me.
Just as a hen, when she has seized on something
Too large to swallow at a single mouthful,
Runs round and round, and holds it tight, and longs
To gulp it down, while others follow her;
So the first guest that felt my fish's flavour
Leapt from his couch, and fled around the room,
Holding the dish, while others chased a-stern.
One might have raised the sacred cry, as if
It was a miracle; for some of them
Snatch'd something, others nothing, others all.
Yet they had only given me to dress
Some paltry river-fish that feed on mud.
If I had had a sea-char, or a turbot
From Athens—Zeus the Saver!—or a boar-fish
From Argos, or from darling Sicyon
That fish which Neptune carries up to Heaven
To feast the Immortals with—the conger-eel;
Then all who ate it would have turn'd to gods.
I have discover'd the elixir vitæ;
Those who are dead already, when they've smelt
One of my dishes, come to life again.—Anon.
