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 by, 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 ;-
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 can not 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. (1)

My dear Mr. Murray,

You're in a damn'd hurry

To set up this ultimate Canto; (2)

But (if they don't rob us)

You'll see Mr. Hobhouse

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.

For the Journal hint of,

you

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.

(1) [See antè, VOL IV. p. 76.]

(2) [The fourth Canto of " Childe Harold."-E]

Then you've ***'s Tour,

No great things, to be sure,

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.

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.

For the

66
man, poor and shrewd,"

With whom you'd conclude
A compact without more delay,

Perhaps some such pen is

Still extant in Venice;

But please, sir, to mention your pay.

Venice, January 8. 1818.

TO MR. MURRAY. (1)

STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, Patron and publisher of rhymes,

For thee the bard up

Pindus climbs,

My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all-and sellest some-
My Murray

Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,-
But where is thy new Magazine,

My Murray?

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The "Art of Cookery," and mine,
My Murray.

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the " Navy List,"
My Murray.

And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without "the Board of Longitude,"
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray!

Venice, March 25. 1818.

(1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. IV. p. 96.]