Her book, they say, was in advance— Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France ! But, to return, sir, to your play: JOHN MURRAY. EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. (1) My dear Mr. Murray, You're in a damn'd hurry To set up this ultimate Canto ; (2) 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 Our "Beppo:"-when copied, I'll send it. (1) [See antè, Vol. IV. p. 76.] (2) [The fourth Canto of " Childe Harold."-E] Then you've ***'s Tour, No great things, to be sure, 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 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 66 With whom you'd conclude A compact without more delay, Perhaps some such pen is Still extant in Venice; But please, sir, to mention your pay. Venice, January 8. 1818. TO MR. MURRAY. (1) STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, To thee, with hope and terror dumb, Upon thy table's baize so green Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Heaven forbid I should conclude Venice, March 25. 1818. (1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol IV. p. 96.] TO THOMAS MOORE.(1) WHAT are you doing now, But the Carnival's coming, EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. WITH death doom'd to grapple Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel (1) [See Vol. III. p. 319, antè.] SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD Fitzgerald's FORFEITURE. To be the father of the fatherless, To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, This is to be a monarch, and repress Envy into unutterable praise. Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless? Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet To make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, A despot thou, and yet thy people free, And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. Bologna, August 12. 1819. (1) (1) ["So the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' sonetto? There, you dogs! there's a sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an' ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good: it was a very noble piece of principality."- Lord B. to Mr. Murray.] |