Classic Poem

A Curate (Mr. S MITH ) and a B ENCHER of the Temple (Mr. H ARDINGE ).

CURATE .

T HE lines that here a Bencher greet
Throw a poor Orphan at his feet;
The Writer bears them in his hands,
A Mother still his love demands.
An Orphan , destitute and young,
Upon the Temple Church is flung;
Eight Sisters are in want of bread,
In me alone they lift their head.
For them — I court the Beggar's fate.

BENCHER .

Alas, good Sir! you come too late .
The Carrs , you 've heard of them, at Ealing ,
Pre-occupied the Bencher's feeling;
Would Linden his demands resign,
Your interest would then be mine ;
With joy I 'd then promote your views,
'Tis agony when I refuse:
I love your Mother and her pearls
(For I am partial to the Girls).

CURATE .

I ask no more — 'tis nobly done,
To honour thus an Orphan-son.
I have a letter — (could you know it) —
I have it — but I dare not shew it;
Such honour to a feeling heart
No pen could ever yet impart;
A model too of graceful style —

BENCHER .

You keep the letter all the while.

CURATE .

Oh, Sir! — 'tis yours — 'twas you that gave
A boon to him that 's in his grave;
But gave it in so fine a manner ,
That Chesterfield resign'd his banner.

I heard with transport — and I felt,
That Linden's claim began to melt .
Apollo sav'd me in the nick;
For Smith took up his hat and stick.