'IN THIS BELOVED MARBLE

VIEW'

[To John Murray, Venice, November 25, 1816. The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I know) is, without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution.')

In this beloved marble view

Above the works and thoughts of Man, What Nature could, but would not, do, And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond Imagination's power, Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With Immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!

the destruction of machinery which was sup posed to have occasioned the scarcity of labor.]

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,

'TO HOOK THE READER, YOU, JOHN MURRAY'

[To John Murray, March 25, 1817.] To hook the reader, you, John Murray, Have publish'd Anjon's Margaret, Which won't be sold off in a hurry

(At least, it has not been as yet); And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up Ilderim;

So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. And mind you do not let escape

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, Which would be very treacherous — very, And get me into such a scrape!

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.
And prick'd to death expire upon her needle,
A sort of end which I should take indeed ill!

'GOD MADDENS HIM WHOM 'TIS HIS WILL TO LOSE'

[To John Murray, April 2, 1817. 'Quem Deus vult perdere prius dementat, which may be done into English thus: '-]

GOD maddens him whom 't is his will to lose,

And gives the choice of death or phrenzy — choose.

'MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE'

[To Thomas Moore, July 10, 1817. 'This should have been written fifteen months ago the first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim in the Adriatic; and I write to you with a black-eyed Venetian girl before me, reading Boccaccio.' It would not be easy to find a better example than these stanzas of Byron's facility and grace.]

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

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.

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.

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

"T is to thee that I would drink.

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.

[To John Murray, August 21, 1817. Murray had written to Byron: Polidori has sent me his tragedy! Do me the kindness to send by return of post a delicate declension of it, which I engage faithfully to copy.' The following is Byron's 'civil and delicate declension for the medical tragedy.']

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,

II

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-now-a-days.
I had a heavy loss by Manuel,-

Too lucky if it

prove not annual,

20

And Sotheby, with his damn'd Orestes (Which, by the way, the old Bore's best is), Has lain so very long on hand

That I despair of all demand.

60

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!
'Tis said she certainly was married
To Rocca, and had twice miscarried,
No not miscarried, I opine, -
But brought to bed at forty-nine.
Some say she died a Papist; Some
Are of opinion that's a Hum;

I don't know that the fellow, Schlegel,
Was very likely to inveigle

A dying person in compunction
To try the extremity of Unction.
But peace be with her! for a woman
Her talents surely were uncommon.

74

Her Publisher (and Public too)
The hour of her demise may rue —
For never more within his shop he
Pray was not she interr'd at Coppet?
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 are full, my head so busy,
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy;
And so, with endless truth and hurry,
Dear Doctor, I am yours,

August, 1817.

80

89

JOHN MURRAY.