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'TO HOOK THE READER, YOU, JOHN MURRAY'

[To John Murray, March 25, 1817.] To hook the reader, you, John Murray, Have publish'd Anjou'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 And get me into such a scrape!

very,

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[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;

II

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

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Too lucky if it prove not annual,-
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.

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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 thun-
der!

My Room's so full; we've Gifford here
Reading MSS., 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

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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

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[To John Murray, January 8, 1818. Byron was sending home the fourth canto of Childe Harold by his friend Hobhouse. The Edinburgh Monthly Magazine was begun in 1817.]

My dear Mr. Murray,
You're in a damn'd hurry

To set up this ultimate Canto;
But (if they don't rob us)
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.

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

The devil a bit of

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when copied, I'll send it.

In the mean time you've 'Galley'
Whose verses all tally,

Perhaps you may say he's a Ninny,
But if you abash'd are
Because of Alashtar,

He 'll drivel another Phrosine.

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That he crawls on the surface like Vermin, But an Insect in both,

By his Intellect's growth

Of what size you may quickly determine.

[E NIHILO NIHIL;

OR AN EPIGRAM BEWITCHED]

[First published in Edition of 1904 from a manuscript in possession of Mr. Murray.] OF rhymes I printed seven volumes -The list concludes John Murray's columns:

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Of these there have been few translations
For Gallic or Italian nations;
And one or two perhaps in German,
But in this last I can't determine.
But then I only sung of passions
That do not suit with modern fashions;
Of Incest and such like diversions
Permitted only to the Persians,

Or Greeks to bring upon their stages
But that was in the earlier ages.
Besides my style is the romantic,

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Which some call fine, and some call frantic;
While others are or would seem as sick
Of repetitions nicknamed Classic.
For my part all men must allow
Whatever I was, I'm classic now.
I saw and left my fault in time,
And chose a topic all sublime-
Wondrous as antient war or hero
Then play'd and sung away like Nero,
Who sang of Rome, and I of Rizzo:
The subject has improved my wit so,
The first four lines the poet sees
Start forth in fourteen languages!
Though of seven volumes none before
Could ever reach the fame of four,
Henceforth I sacrifice all Glory
To the Rinaldo of my Story:
I've sung his health and appetite
(The last word's not translated right-
He's turn'd it, God knows how, to vigour);
I'll sing them in a book that's bigger.
Oh! Muse prepare for thy Ascension!
And generous Rizzo! thou my pension.
February, 1818.

30

ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO HOPPNER

His father's sense, his mother's grace, In him, I hope, will always fit so; With-still to keep him in good caseThe health and appetite of Rizzo. February 20, 1818.

BALLAD

TO THE TUNE OF SALLY IN OUR ALLEY'

[First published complete in the Edition of 1904 from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. Murray. This and the two following poems are in a letter to John Murray, dated April 11, 1818.]

Or all the twice ten thousand bards
That ever penn'd a canto,

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He rode upon a Camel's hump
Through Araby the sandy,
Which surely must have hurt the rump
Of this poetic dandy.

His rhymes are of the costive kind,
And barren as each valley
In deserts which he left behind
Has been the Muse of Gally.

He has a Seat in Parliament,
Is fat and passing wealthy;
And surely he should be content
With these and being healthy:
But Great Ambition will misrule
Men at all risks to sally,
Now makes a poet-now a fool,
And we know which of Gally.

Some in the playhouse like to row. Some with the Watch to battle,

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'STRAHAN, TONSON, LINTOT OF THE TIMES'

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 book-shelves 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!

'IF FOR SILVER, OR FOR GOLD'

[To John Murray, August 12, 1819. This was written on some French woman, by Rulhières, I believe.']

IF for silver, or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half a dozen dimples,
Then your face we might behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more smugly,
Yet even then 't would be damn'd ugly.

EPILOGUE

[First published in Philadelphia Record, December 28, 1891.]

THERE's something in a stupid ass,
And something in a heavy dunce;
But never since I went to school
I heard or saw so damn'd a fool
As William Wordsworth is for once.

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