Of rhymes I printed seven volumes—
The list concludes John Murray’s columns:
Of these there have been few translations
For Gallic or Italian nations;
And one or two perhaps in German—
But in this last I can’t determine.
But then I only sung of passions
That do not suit with modern fashions;
Of Incest and such like diversions
Permitted only to the Persians,
Or Greeks to bring upon their stages—
But that was in the earlier ages
Besides my style is the romantic,
Which some call fine, and some call frantic;
While others are or would seem as sick
Of repetitions nicknamed Classic.
For my part all men must allow
Whatever I was, I’m classic now.
I saw and left my fault in time,
And chose a topic all sublime—
Wondrous as antient war or hero—
Then played and sung away like Nero,
Who sang of Rome, and I of Rizzo:
The subject has improved my wit so,
The first four lines the poet sees
Start forth in fourteen languages!
Though of seven volumes none before
Could ever reach the fame of four,
Henceforth I sacrifice all Glory
To the Rinaldo of my Story:
I’ve sung his health and appetite
(The last word’s not translated right—
He’s turned it, God knows how, to vigour)
I’ll sing them in a book that’s bigger.
Oh! Muse prepare for thy Ascension!
And generous Rizzo! thou my pension.
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
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,
My Murray.
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