In all the strange events that Rumor sends, By flood and flame, to earth's remotest ends; War, famine, wreck, and all the varying fates Of rising cottons or of falling states; Revolts at home, and troubles o'er the seas, Among the Affghans, Chartists, and Chinese; In all the recent millions that have gone To the dark realm, and still are hastening on, That one small tradesman should have joined the throng Seems a mean theme to babble of in song. Yet such is Fame! and such the pow'r of books, To make small names as deathless as the Duke's:[B] Yes, the same volume that recordeth you, Ye mighty chiefs! embalms the printer's too; And wheresoe'er the poet's fame hath flown, There too the poet's publisher is known; So shall our friend enjoy, to endless ages, An immortality of title-pages. [B] In England there is but one Duke who is universally and deservedly known as 'THE Duke.' Ev'n here, in Scythia, where the slighted Muse Gets but cold greeting from the rude Yahoos; Ev'n here is faintly heard a public sigh, Ah, that Childe Harold's accoucheur should die! That he who made such elegant editions Should be past help from parsons or physicians; Dead as the most defunct of all the verse For which erewhile he tapped his liberal purse; No more a bargainer for true sublime, Himself a subject for a scrap of rhyme. Methinks I see his melancholy ghost Near his old threshold, at his ancient post; Watching with eager and obsequious grin, The pensive customers that enter in. With curious eye selecting from the throng, Each who has dabbled in the realm of song; And offering, as of yore, for something nice In way of Epitaph, the market price. And now his bones the sculptured slab lie under, What generous bard will _give_ him one, I wonder? For all the golden promises he made; For all the golden guineas that he paid; For all the fame his counter could afford The rev'rend pamphleteer and author-lord; For all the tricks he taught the friendless muse; For all his purchased papers in Reviews; For all the pleasant stories he retailed; For all the turtle when the stories failed; For all the praises, all the punch he spent, What grateful hand will deck his monument? CAMPBELL'S too proud the compliment to grant: SOUTHEY, for sundry weighty reasons, can't. Should MOORE attempt it, he'd be sure to damn John's many virtues in an epigram. ROGERS' blank verse so very blank has grown, 'T would scarce be legible on Parian stone; WORDSWORTH would mar it by inscribing on it A little sermon--what he calls a sonnet. Alas! for all the guineas that he paid, For all the immortalities he made, For all his venison, all his right old wine, Will none contribute one sepulchral line?