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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


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 roomThe 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 advancePray 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,



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 divineThe “ 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!



ILLUSTRIOUS Holland ! hard would be his lot, His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! Long, long beneath that hospitable roof Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, Declare his landlord can at least translate ! Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, They write for food—and feed because they write : And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, My lady skims the cream of each critique ; Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, Reforms each error, and refines the whole.


Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career,
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear :
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own-
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown :
My voice was heard again, though not so loud,
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ;
And now at once I tear the veil away :-
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house,
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse,
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage,
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are “penetrable stuff :"
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe.
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ;
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise
The meanest thing that crawld beneath my eyes :
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth,
I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth ;
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ;

the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss :
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown,
I too can hunt a poetaster down ;
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce.


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