VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT
HALES-OWEN.

WHEN Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought,"
His hours in whistling spent, "for want of thought,"
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence;

Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,

Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

FROM THE FRENCH.

AGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;

Che makes her own face, and does not make her

rhymes.

THE CONQUEST.

THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
Him who made England bow to Normandy,
And left the name of conqueror more than king
To his unconquerable dynasty.

Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,
He rear'd, his bold and brilliant throne on high:
The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast,
And Britain's bravest victor was the last.

VERSICLES.

I READ the “Christabel;" Very well:

I read the "Missionary;"
Pretty-very:

I tried at "Ilderim;"
Ahem!

1

March 8-9, 1823.

I read a sheet of "Margret of Anjou ”

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.

EPIGRAM,

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES.

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 snugly · Yet even then 't would be d--i ugl♥

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLI-
DORI.

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 plays'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 after'd since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice.

a short, sir, what with one and t'other,

I dare not venture on another.

I write in haste; excuse each blunder;

T'he coaches through the streets so thunder.
My room's so full-we've Gifford here
Reading MS., with Hookman 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, ana 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 advancePray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! Thus run our time and tongues away.But, to return, sir, to your play: Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, Unless 't were acted by O'Neil. My hands so full, my head so busy, I'm almost dead, and always dizzy; And so, with endless truth and hurry, Dear Doctor, I am yours,

JOHN MURRAY

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.

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

Our "Beppo"-when copied, I'll send it.

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 guess-work

You can make any loss up

With "Spence" and his gossip,

A work which must surely succeed; Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,

With the new "Tytte" of "Whistlecraft," Must make people purchase and read.

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 disam er

For the man, “ poor and shrewd,"
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.

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. WITH death doom'd to grapple

Beneath this cold slab, he

Who lied in the Chapel

Now lies in the Abbey.

TO MR. MURRAY.

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!

Venice, March 25, 1818.

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 Rizzio.

STANZAS, TO A HINDOO AIR.

[These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-“ Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.] OH!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover?

Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far-far away! and alone along the billow?

Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!

Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow.-

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!

Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
la return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.-
Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow,
Ir. one embrace let these arms again enfold him,
And then expire of the joy-but to behold him!
Oh my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!