WRITTEN IN MRS. OSBALDESTON'S GARDEN, AT TWICKENHAM .

While Thames, for ever dear to tuneful song!
Glides his clear stream the Twickenham meads along;
Winding by Pope's, his sighs disturb the deep,
Where the old willow drooping seems to weep;
But soon his troubled waters clear once more,
Meand'ring further on the well known shore;
Where wit, good humour, elegance attend
The kindest hostess, and the warmest friend!
Old Thames, upon his crystal urn reclin'd,
Chasing the clouds of sorrow from his mind,
Well pleas'd exclaims, and shakes his hoary brow,
" What Pope's was once, is Osbaldeston's now!"