STRANGER! behold, interred together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often
found

Well stitched and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella"?
For character he did not lack it;
And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-
it."

Malta, May 16, 1811.
[First published, Lord Byron's
Works, 1832, ix. 10.]

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE OR FARCICAL OPERA.2

GOOD plays are scarce, So Moore writes farce:

[For Joseph Blacket (1786-1810), see Letters, 1898, i., p. 314. The authority of the epitaph has been questioned.]

[Moore's M.P.; or, The Blue Stocking, which was played for the first time at the Lyceum Theatre, September 9, 1811.]

The poet's fame grows brittle

We knew before
That Little's Moore,

But now 'tis Moore that's little.
September 14, 1811.

[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 295 (note).]

[R. C. DALLAS.]

YES! wisdom shines in all his mien,

Which would so captivate, I ween,

Wisdom's own goddess Pallas; That she'd discard her fav'rite owl, And take for pet a brother fowl, Sagacious R. C. Dallas. [First published, Life, Writings, Opinions, etc., 1825, ii. 192.]

Some folks for certain have thought it was shocking,

When Famine appeals and when
Poverty groans,

That Life should be valued at less than a stocking,

And breaking of frames lead to breaking of bones.

If it should prove so, I trust, by this token,

(And who will refuse to partake in the hope?)

That the frames of the fools may be first to be broken,

Who, when asked for a remedy, sent
down a rope.

[First published, Morning Chron-
icle, Monday, March 2, 1812.]
[First republished by John Pear-
son, 1880, 8°.]

TO THE HONBLE. MRS GEORGE

LAMB.

I.

THE sacred song that on mine ear

Yet vibrates from that voice of thine I heard, before, from one so dear 'Tis strange it still appears divine.

2.

But, oh! so sweet that look and tone To her and thee alike is given;

It seemed as if for me alone

That both had been recalled from
Heaven!

3.

And though I never can redeem
The vision thus endeared to me;
I scarcely can regret my dream,
When realised again by thee. 1812.

[First published in The Two Duck-
esses, by Vere Foster, 1898, p. 374)

[LA REVANCHE.]

I.

THERE is no more for me to hope,
There is no more for thee to fear;
And, if I give my Sorrow scope,
That Sorrow thou shalt never hear.
Why did I hold thy love so dear?
Why shed for such a heart one tear?
Let deep and dreary silence be
My only memory of thee!

2.

When all are fled who flatter now, Save thoughts which will not flatter then;

And thou recall'st the broken vow

To him who must not love again
Each hour of now forgotten years
Thou, then, shalt number with thy
tears;

And every drop of grief shall be
A vain remembrancer of me!

Undated,? 1812.
[From an autograph MS. in the
possession of Mr. Murray, first
published, 1903.]

Lord Thurlow (1781-1829). It was the following stanza from "An Epistle to a Friend," which excited the ridicule of Byron and Moore:

"When Rogers o'er this labour bent, Their purest fire the Muses lent, T'illustrate this sweet argument. "Byron," says Moore, "undertook to read it aloud; but he found it impossible to get beyond the first two words. Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times he began; but no sooner had the words 'When Rogers' passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh, -- till even Mr Rogers himself found it impossible not to join us."--- Life, p. 181.]

I

[Hermilda in Palestine was published in