To "Time's storehouse" itself, when the public would go,
The index of Fame points at once to the "Row!"
A fact that speaks volumes! since there are unfurl'd
All the learning, and science, and wit in this world!

How few can conceive the magnificent scenes,
Beheld in that depôt of grand magazines;
For 'tis no idle prate or assertion to say,
A review's quite a fool to a magazine day.

Yet serene 'midst the battle, that rages by fits,
Sword-cutlers as 'twere to the army of wits!
We say to the Public 'tis time to look round,
When you all bring your intellects here to be ground.

If your study be Man, we present the "Whole Duty;"
If Woman's the theme, then 'tis "Heath's Book of Beauty;"
Would the lawyer seek chaff, or the farmer good crops,
They all throng alike to the booksellers' shops.

Thither hies the poor bard, growing thinner and thinner,
Who can't scratch up thought to procure him a dinner!
He starts a rich quarry, (none happens to know it,)
And bursts out at once an original poet!

Yet the public are told that we're "shockingly hard,”
And thrive but by starving the poor "luckless" bard,
Though we sell "Mines of Thought" for odd shillings,
and (zounds)

Buy 'em back the next day for as many score pounds!

Some want cures for the gout, for the dropsy, or phthisics,
E'en doctors themselves will hunt up metaphysics;
To botanical students we make it appear

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!
They can't go to law and maintain a good quarrel,
You can't make it up, and the small bill discharge,
Except by consulting the "Statutes at large."

Now to crown our success, may the public cry "bravo!"
Whatever we print, either twelves or octavo!

While true to our Post, we're for ever the sort O!
To drink Queen and Prince in a right "royal quart-O."
J. MAJOR.*

SONG-THE BOOKSELLERS' BANQUET.+
Grave vendors of volumes, best friends of the Nine,
Give ear to my song as to charm you I try;
Other bards may in vain look for audience like mine,
For the muses they chant, for the booksellers I.
Their notes I have drawn, so 'tis nothing but fair

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
Like holiday tomes in our gilding so bright;
Some care 'tis our duty and wish to afford

In the moment of need to a less lucky wight,
Whose title is lost, and whose covers are torn, [surround,
When the moth has gnawed through, dust or cobwebs
And to lift on the shelf our poor brother forlorn,

As a much damaged old folio treasured by Lowndes.

[down,
Though his back stock of life may perchance weigh him
By our aid may the old heavy pressure be moved,
And new-titled we start him again on the town,

As a second edition revised and improved.
And for dealings like this a commission will find,
And that of a date that the primest is given,
The commission is-Strive to do good to mankind,
And the place of its date is no other than Heaven.
I won't keep the press waiting-my copy is gone,
Having finished a lay which Bob Fisher, perhaps,
May out of the head of old Caxton call one,

If not of his Drawing, yet Dining-room Scraps;
But as we all still think of Tom Talfourd's bill,
After sixty years' date, I respectfully beg,
As a knight of the quill, here to offer for nil,
My right in this song as a present to Tegg.

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
Dulness and maggots, calumny and lies.

• 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,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard of Pindus climes,

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 bookshelves 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,

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,
Child of my soul, ah! how shalt thou repay
My fond regards, and bless the future age,
If yet unseen thy latent charms decay?

Does critic Rome thy cautious breast control?
Dismiss thy fears; the shafts of envy dare;
Go forth, unanxious; and from pole to pole,
Swift as the winds, thy master's glory bear.

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.