No power in death can tear our names apart,
As none in life could rend thee from my heart.
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate

To be entwined for ever- - but too late! 1

respect. Marco di Sciarra, the notorious captain of a numerous troop of banditti, hearing where the great poet was, sent to compliment him, and offered him not only a free passage, but protection by the way, and assured him that he and his followers would be proud to execute his orders.-See Manso, Vita del Tasso, p. 219.]

[The "pleasures of imagination" have been explained and justified by Addison in prose, and by Akenside in verse: but there are moments of real life when its miseries and its necessities seem to overpower and destroy them. The history of mankind, however, furnishes proofs that no bodily suffering, no adverse circumstances, operating on our material nature, will extinguish the spirit of imagination. Perhaps there is no instance of this so very affecting and so very sublime as the case of Tasso. They who have seen the dark, horror-striking dungeon-hole at Ferrara, in which he was confined seven years under the imputation of madness, will have had this truth impressed upon their hearts in a manner never to be erased. In this vault, of which the sight makes the hardest heart shudder, the poet employed himself in finishing and correcting his immortal epic poem. Lord Byron's "Lament" on this subject is as sublime and profound a lesson in morality, and in the pictures of the recesses of the human soul, as it is a production most eloquent, most pathetic, most vigorous, and most elevating among the gifts of the Muse. The bosom which is not touched with it-the fancy which is not warmedthe understanding which is not enlightened and exalted by it, is not fit for human intercourse. If Lord Byron had written nothing but this, to deny him the praise of a grand poet would have been flagrant injustice or gross stupidity. BRYDGES.]

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO
DR. POLIDORI.1

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 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.

[For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori see Moore's "Notices." "I never," says Lord Byron, "was much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracassaries, and emptiness, and ill-humour, and vanity of this young person; but he has some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions of amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is improved and improvable. You want a 'civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it."

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 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,

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.
1 [The fourth canto of "Childe Harold."]

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

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 66

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, 66

poor and shrewd,"

With whom you'd conclude

A compact without more delay,

Perhaps some such pen is

Still extant in Venice;

1

But please, sir, to mention your pay.

Venice, January 8. 1818.

1 Vide your letter.