Or if in Proserpine's more sultry sky For his misdeeds the Publisher must sigh, Though much good company about him stand, And many an author take him by the hand, And swarms of novelists around him press, And many a bard return his warm caress, Though there on all the sinners he shall gaze Who ever wrote, or planned, or acted plays; On all the wits, from Anna's time to ours, Who strewed perdition's pleasant way with flowers; On BURNS, consumed with more substantial fire Than ever love or whisky could inspire; On SHELLEY, seething in a lake of lead, And BYRON stretched upon a lava bed; Little shall he, or they, or any there, Of magazines or morning journals care; Little shall there be whispered or be thought, About the last new book and what it brought; Little of copyright and Yankee thieves, Or any wrong that CHARLIE'S bosom grieves; But side by side reviewer and reviewed, Critic and criticised must all be--stewed; Alas! they groan--alas! compared with this, Ev'n BLACKWOOD'S drunken surgery was bliss. How less than little were the direst blows Dealt by brute GIFFORD on his baby foes! How light, compared with hell's eternal pain, The small damnation was of Drury Lane! Down! down! thou impious, dark Imagination, Forbear the foul, the blasphemous creation; Whate'er John's doom, in whatsoever sphere, Wretched or blest, 't is not for us to hear. Not many such have dignified his trade, So boldly bargained and so nobly paid. Oh may his own Divine Paymaster prove As kind and righteous in the realms above! THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE. Harry Harson. CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.