VERSICLES. (1)

I READ the "Christabel ;"

Very well:

I read the "Missionary;"
Pretty-very:

I tried at "Ilderim;"

Ahem!

I read a sheet of " Margret of Anjou;" (2)
Can you?

I turn'd a page of Scott's "Waterloo ;"

Pooh! pooh!

I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white" Rylstone Doe;" Hillo !

&c. &c. &c.

TO MR. MURRAY. (3)

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);

(1) [“ I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot headach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some versicles, which I made one Venice, March, 1817.]

sleepless night."-B. Letters.

(2) [The "Missionary" was written by Mr. Bowles; "Ilderim" by Mr. Gally Knight; and "Margaret of Anjou" by Miss Holford.]

(3) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. III. p. 367.]

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.

March 25. 1817.

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 bowe's,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels

(1) [For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori, and his tragedy, see antè, Vol. III. p. 275. "I never," says Lord Byron, "was much more disgusted with any human production than with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, 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."- Lord B. to Mr. M. August 21. 1817.]

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. 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.