TO MR. MURRAY.

FOR Orford and for Waldegrave

You give much more than me you gave;
Which is not fairly to behave,

My Murray.

Because if a live dog, 't is said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,

A live lord must be worth two dead,

My Murray.

And if, as the opinion goes,

Verse hath a better sale than prose

Certes, I should have more than those,
My Murray.

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd,
So, if you will, I sha'n't be shamm'd,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd,
My Murray.

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI.

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 everybody 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 — nowadays. 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,

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 't were 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.

TO MR. MURRAY:

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!

HOLLAND HOUSE.

(From ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEwers.)

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!