To "Time's storehouse" itself, when the public would go, How few can conceive the magnificent scenes, Yet serene 'midst the battle, that rages by fits, If your study be Man, we present the "Whole Duty;" Thither hies the poor bard, growing thinner and thinner, Yet the public are told that we're "shockingly hard,” Buy 'em back the next day for as many score pounds! Some want cures for the gout, for the dropsy, or phthisics, We've an "Annual" for more than each month in the year. We've theology, history, novels, and tales, But I won't say which knocks down the best at trade-sales! Though 'tis still far from rare that the muse cuts a caper, Turning realms of romance into reams of waste paper. People want some good book e'en to tap a good barrel! Now to crown our success, may the public cry "bravo!" While true to our Post, we're for ever the sort O! SONG-THE BOOKSELLERS' BANQUET.+ That my notes should be drawn, if they please, at a beck; Undaunted I warble-I truly declare My song is most valued when met by a cheque. The work we've just finished went off very well; It was set out with plates, such as Finden or Heath, If ev'n their professional feelings rebel, Must praise on account (not in spite) of their teeth. Though by Fraser‡ cut up, and by Murray reviewed, Lovegrove's articles all fit insertion have found. We have cleared off our boards, but as business is good, We keep wetted for use, and for pleasure unbound. • Mr. John Major, formerly of Fleet Street, who now favours me with the following two lines to substitute at the beginning, for any convivial meeting of "The Trade :" "Brother Booksellers-never mind whence you proceed, From the banks of the Shannon, the Thames, or the Tweed! ↑ Sung at the Booksellers' Annual Dinner, Blackwall, June 7, 1842. ↑ Mr. James Fraser, bookseller. publisher, and proprietor of the wellknown magazine which goes by his name, died October 2d, 1841. But here not for pleasure alone are we stored In the moment of need to a less lucky wight, As a much damaged old folio treasured by Lowndes. [down, As a second edition revised and improved. If not of his Drawing, yet Dining-room Scraps; DR. MAGINN. ON PRINTING. Horses and asses, flies and devils do Their labour in the printing art bestow ; No wonder, thence such loads of lumber rise • Robert Fisher, Esq., publisher, of the Caxton Printing Office. + William Maginn, LL.D., so well known in the world of literature and politics, died at Walton-upon-Thames, August 20, 1842, in the 49th year of his age. Prize Epigram. Gentleman's Magazine, April, 1735. TO MR. MURRAY.* STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, My Murray. To thee with hope and terror dumb, My Murray. Upon thy table's baize so green, My Murray' Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine The "Art of Cookery," and mine, My Murray. Tours, travels, essays, too, I wist, My Murray. And Heaven forbid I should conclude Venice, March 25, 1818. My Murray. BYRON.† • John Murray, the eminent bookseller and publisher of Albermarle Street, London, was born Nov. 22d, 1778, and died June 27, 1843. He paid to Lord Byron the sum of £23,540 for the copyright of his principal poems, thus acting with a degree of liberality previously unknown in the history of literature. See Murray's edition of the works of Lord Byron, 8vo. + George Gordon Byron, lord Byron, whose name is imperishably connected with the literature of his native land, was born in London, Jan. 22d, 1788; married Jan. 3d, 1815; and died April 19th. 1824. His first work, Hours of Idleness, was published in 1807; and his last, The Island, and cantos of Don Juan, 1823. BOOKS. BUT what strange arts, what magic can dispose, The troubled mind to change its native woes? Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? This books can do-nor this alone! they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the griev'd, the stubborn they chastise, Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise. Their aid they yield to all; they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone : Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd: Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings. The Library. CRABBE. TO HIS BOOK, ASCRIBED TO HORACE. OH! thou my first delight, immortal page, Does critic Rome thy cautious breast control? See where the red right hand of thundering Jove Hurls the fierce furies to the shades below! He be invoked, the first of gods above, And in our strains, his praise perennial flow. Annual Register, 1793. |