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For, firstly, I should have to sally,
All in my little boat, against a Galley;
And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight,
Have next to combat with the female knight.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

I.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!

II.

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate:
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

III.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

IV.

Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,

"Tis to thee that I would drink.

March 25, 1817.

V.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be-peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.'

July, 1817.

"["This should have been written fifteen months ago; the first stanza was.”Lord B. to Mr. Moore, July 10, 1817.]

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI.3

DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,-
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief

To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.

I like your moral and machinery;
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery;
Your dialogue is apt and smart;
The play's concoction full of art;
Your hero raves, your heroine cries,
All stab, and every body dies.
In short, your tragedy would be
The very thing to hear and see:
And for a piece of publication,
If I decline on this occasion,
It is not that I am not sensible
To merits in themselves ostensible,
But-and I grieve to speak it-plays
Are drugs-mere drugs, sir-now-a-days.
I had a heavy loss by "Manuel,"
Too lucky if it prove not annual,-
And Sotheby, with his "Orestes,"
(Which, by the bye, the author's best is,)
Has lain so very long on hand,

That I despair of all demand.
I've advertised, but see my books,

Or only watch my shopman's looks ;

--

3

66

["I never," says Lord Byron, was much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and ill-humour, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improvable. You want a 'civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, August 21, 1817.]

Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber,
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.

There's Byron too, who once did better,
Has sent me, folded in a letter,
A sort of it's no more a drama
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama;
So alter'd since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice.
In short, sir, what with one and t'other,
I dare not venture on another.

I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
The coaches through the street so thunder!
My room's so full-we've Gifford here
Reading MS., with Hookham Frere,
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles,
Of some of our forthcoming Articles.

The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you
Had but the genius to review!—
A smart critique upon St. Helena,
Or if you only would but tell in a
Short compass what- -but to resume:
As I was saying, sir, the room-

The room's so full of wits and bards,

Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards,

And others, neither bards nor wits:

My humble tenement admits
All persons in the dress of gent.,
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.

A party dines with me to-day,
All clever men, who make their way:
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey,
Are all partakers of my pantry.
They're at this moment in discussion
On poor De Staël's late dissolution.
Her book, they say, was in advance-
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France!
Thus run our time and tongues away ;-
But, to return, sir, to your play :

Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal,
Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill;
My hands so full, my head so busy,
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy;
And so, with endless truth and hurry,
Dear Doctor, I am yours,

JOHN MURRAY.

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.

My dear Mr. Murray,
You're in a damn'd hurry

To set up this ultimate Canto;"
But (if they don't rob us)

You'll see Mr. Hobhouse

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.

Then you've*** *'s Tour,

No great things, to be sure,

For the Journal you hint of,

As ready to print off,

No doubt you do right to commend it; But as yet I have writ off

The devil a bit of

Our "Beppo : "—when copied, I'll send it.

August, 1817.

You could hardly begin with a less work;

For the pompous rascallion,

Who don't speak Italian

Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork.

You can make any loss up
With "Spence" and his gossip,

A work which must surely succeed;
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,
With the new "Fytte" of "Whistlecraft,"
Must make people purchase and read.

4 [The fourth Canto of "Childe Harold."]

Then you've General Gordon,
Who girded his sword on,

To serve with a Muscovite master,

And help him to polish

A nation so owlish,

They thought shaving their beards a disaster.

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