« السابقةمتابعة »
poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata ; e diretto a ge-
Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta
1 (“This should have been written fifteen moons ago: the I am just come out from an hour's swim in
* [“The IIelen of Canova (a bust which is in the house
TRANSLATION FROM WITTORELLL on A. Nux.
Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter
TO THOMAS MOORE.
neighbour —, who is all clergy and loyalty—mirth and in-
1816. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 569
TO MR. MURRAY.
To hook the reader, you, John Murray,
And mind you do not let escape
And get me into such a scrape :
March 25, 1817.
EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO
DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
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 sleepless night.” – Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 25. 1817.]
* [The “ Missiona derim '' by Mr. Gally Miss Holford.]
* [For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori see Moore's “Notices.” “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 mterest for him, for he is improved and improvable. You want a ‘civil and delicate declension' for the medical tragedy? Take it.”— Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 21. 1817.]
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
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 Stael's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advance — Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France :
1 [The fourth canto of “Childe Ilarold."]
Thus run our time and tongues away. —
Jolix Mu RRAY.
EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.
My dear Mr. Murray,
For the Journal you hint of,
As ready to print off,
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of
Then you've * * * * 's Tour, -
You can make any loss up
Then you've General Gordon,
Who girded his sword on,
And help him to polish
A nation so owlish,
For the man, “poor and shrewd,"?
TO MR. MURRAY.
Stro An AN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged M.S. authors come;
Thou printest all — and sellest some – My Murray.
2 Pide your letter.
1817. Upon thy table's baize so green
1818. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 57.1
The last new Quarterly is seen, –
But where is thy new Magazine,
Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine —
The “Art of Cookery,” and mine,
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Sermons to thy mill bring grist; o And then thou hast the “Navy List,” My Murray.
And IIeaven forbid I should conclude
* [Ravenna—a city to which Lord Byron afterwards declared himself more attached than to any other place, except Greece. He resided in it rather more #. two years, “and quitted it,” says Madame Guiccioli, “with the deepest rogret, and with a presentiment that his departure would be the forerunner of a thousand evils: he was continually performing generous actions: many families owed to him the few prosperous days they ever enjoyed ; his arrival was spoken of as a piece of public, good fortune, and his departure as a public calamity.” . In the third canto of “Don Juan,” Lord Byron has ictured the tranquil life which, at this time, he was leadng : — “Sweet hour of twilight !—in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest which Boccaccio's lore And I) ryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee I
“The shrill cichlas, people of the pine,