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 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.

(1) [See antè, Vol. IV. p. 76.]

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

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 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.

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

TO THOMAS MOORE.(1)

WHAT are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore ?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,
Which, Thomas Moore?

But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
Oh Thomas Moore !

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT.

WITH death doom'd to grapple

Beneath this cold slab, he

Who lied in the Chapel
Now lies in the Abbey.

(1) [See Vol. III. p. 319, antè.]