FAME.

OH, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?

'T is but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh FAME! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

IF, in the month of dark December,

Leander, who was nightly wont

(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont !

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo, and Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'T were hard to say who fared the best:

Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you!

He lost his labor, I my jest:

For he was drown'd, and I 've the ague.

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

January 22, 1821.

THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty,

I have dragg'd to three and thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing except thirty-three.

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,

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.