Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'T is to thee that I would drink.
5.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be—peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.[74]
July, 1817.
[First published, Waltz, London, W. Benbow, 1821, p. 29.]
FOOTNOTES:
[74] ["This should have been written fifteen months ago; the first stanza was."—Letter to Moore, July 10, 1817.]
EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLIDORI.[75]
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 shattered nerves and quickened pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.
I like your moral and machinery;
10Your 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
20To 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—[76]
Too lucky if it prove not annual,—
And Sotheby, with his Orestes,[77]
(Which, by the way, the old Bore's best is),
Has lain so very long on hand,
That I despair of all demand;
I've advertised, but see my books,
30Or only watch my Shopman's looks;—
Still Ivan, Ina,[78] 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 altered since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice.