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

Pooh! pooh!

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

Hillo!

&c. &c. &c.

SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING.

I.

So, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

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March, 1817.

III.

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

1817.

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1 ["I have been ill with a slow fever. Here are some versicles which I made one sleepless night."-Lord B. to Mr. Moore, March 25, 1817. The " Missionary was written by Mr. Bowles, "Ilderim" by Mr. Gally Knight, and "Margaret of Anjou" by Miss Holford.]

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WHAT are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,

Which, Thomas Moore ?

But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore!
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,

Oh Thomas Moore !

TO MR. MURRAY.

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-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.

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2 ["This should have been written fifteen months ago; the first stanza was.”

Lord B. to Mr. Moore, July 10, 1817.]

3

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI.3

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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.
I had a heavy loss by "Manuel,"—
Too lucky if it prove not annual,—
And Sotheby, with his "Orestes,"
(Which, by the bye, 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;—

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["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. Murray, August 21, 1817.]

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 :

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