At a Late Vendue
— We lately attended an auetion at which were ottered for sale an Excise Receipt signed by Robert Burns, a bill addressed to Monsieur Moliere by his Washerwoman, and a toothpick which had once belonged to the poet Otway. After witnessing a spirited bidding for the last-named curiosity we departed, and on reaching home onr reflections on what we had seen took shape in the following verses, which may be called
THE PROGRESS OF LETTERS.
MY LORD:
Your Succor in the Muses’ Name.
A I Debt, that to the Happy Great
Were but a Trifle, — Two Pound Eight, —
Hath cost me that which Nature gives
(Saith Tacitus) to Alt that Lives.
In short, My Lord, I lie in Jail.
Friends, Publishers, and Patrons fo il,
And Hope had fletl my Anrious Breast,
Did not a Pleasing Thought suggest
The Name of One, great, good, and sage,
The only Phænix of the Age,
Whom All Admire, whom All Commend,
To Virtue and the Muse a Friend.
Alas ! My Lord, too well I know
Not smoothly do their Numbers Flow
Who write by Grief and Want apprest.
(" HAUD FACILE ” —you know the Best.)
Bat soon I Trust, by You Restor’d.
To show the World how much, My Lord,
I am your Lordship’s Duteous
Most Grateful, most Obsequious.
O Sir ! my Children cry for Bread!
I swear I know not What I say!
But send me Present Aid, I Pray,
In these, my Hard, my Sorest Straits!
NEWGATE, JUNE 1ST.
The Bearer Waits.
We know not if the missive brought
The help so movingly besought;
Fame, that has quite ignored the Peer,
(But spares the Bard,) is silent here.
Only the letter, creased and old,
Is still extant. I saw it sold
In a great auction’s crush and din:
A rich collector bought it in,
And paid (O irony of Fame !)
One Hundred Dollars for the same.