Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Which proves them all, O’Finns, O’Fagans,

  Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans.

  This fact’s enough; let no one tell us

  To free such sad, salivous fellows. —

  No, no — the man, baptized with spittle,

  Hath no truth in him — not a tittle!

  1 In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the “muzzle” has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

  2 A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse.

  3 I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor’s reference here, and find him for once correct.

  LETTER V.

  FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY — .

  My dear Lady — ! I’ve been just sending out

  About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout —

  (By the by, you’ve seen “Rokeby”? — this moment got mine —

  The “Mail-Coach Edition” — prodigiously fine!)

  But I can’t conceive how in this very cold weather

  I’m ever to bring my five hundred together;

  As, unless the thermometer’s near boiling heat,

  One can never get half of one’s hundreds to meet.

  (Apropos — you’d have thought to see Townsend last night,

  Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,

  The “three maiden Miseries,” all in a fright;

  Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,

  Supervisor of thieves and chief-usher of ghosts!)

  But, my dear Lady —— , can’t you hit on some notion,

  At least for one night to set London in motion? —

  As to having the Regent, that show is gone by —

  Besides, I’ve remarkt that (between you and I)

  The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,

  Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;

  Which — considering, you know, dear, the size of the two —

  Makes a block that one’s company cannot get thro’;

  And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small,

  Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all. —

  (Apropos, tho’, of love-work — you’ve heard it, I hope,

  That Napoleon’s old mother’s to marry the Pope, —

  “What a comical pair!) — but, to stick to my Rout,

  ‘Twill be hard if some novelty can’t be struck out.

  Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived?

  No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived?

  No Russian whose dissonant consonant name

  Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?

  I remember the time three or four winters back,

  When — provided their wigs were but decently black —

  A few Patriot monsters from Spain were a sight

  That would people one’s house for one, night after night.

  But — whether the Ministers pawed them too much —

  (And you — know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)

  Or, whether Lord George (the young man about town)

  Has by dint of bad poetry written them down.

  One has certainly lost one’s peninsular rage;

  And the only stray Patriot seen for an age

  Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)

  As old Mrs. Vaughan’s or Lord Liverpool’s.

  But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff

  Are the only things now make an evening go smooth off:

  So, get me a Russian — till death I’m your debtor —

  If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.

  And — Lord! if he would but, in character, sup

  Off his fish-oil and candles, he’d quite set me up!

  Au revoir, my sweet girl — I must leave you in haste —

  Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

  POSTSCRIPT.

  By the by, have you found any friend that can conster

  That Latin account, t’other day, of a Monster?1

  If we can’t get a Russian, and that think in Latin

  Be not too improper, I think I’ll bring that in.

  1 Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a lusus Naturae in the Newspapers lately.

  LETTER VI.

  FROM ABDALLAH,1 IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.

  Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!)

  Dost daily bend thy loyal brow

  Before our King — our Asia’s treasure!

  Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure! —

  And bearest as many kicks and bruises

  As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;

  Thy head still near the bowstring’s borders.

  And but left on till further orders —

  Thro’ London streets with turban fair,

  And caftan floating to the air,

  I saunter on, the admiration

  Of this short-coated population —

  This sewed-up race — this buttoned nation —

  Who while they boast their laws so free

  Leave not one limb at liberty,

  But live with all their lordly speeches

  The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.

  Yet tho’ they thus their knee-pans fetter

  (They’re Christians and they know no better)

  In some things they’re a thinking nation;

  And on Religious Toleration.

  I own I like their notions quite,

  They are so Persian and so right!

  You know our Sunnites,2 hateful dogs!

  Whom every pious Shiite flogs

  Or longs to flog— ’tis true, they pray

  To God, but in an ill-bred way;

  With neither arms nor legs nor faces

  Stuck in their right, canonic places.3

  ’Tis true, they worship Ali’s name —

  Their heaven and ours are just the same —

  (A Persian’s Heaven is easily made,

  ’Tis but black eyes and lemonade.)

  Yet tho’ we’ve tried for centuries back —

  We can’t persuade this stubborn pack,

  By bastinadoes, screws or nippers,

  To wear the establisht pea-green slippers.4

  Then, only think, the libertines!

  They wash their toes — they comb their chins,

  With many more such deadly sins;

  And what’s the worst, (tho’ last I rank it)

  Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

  Yet spite of tenets so flagitious,

  (Which must at bottom be seditious;

  Since no man living would refuse

  Green slippers but from treasonous views;

  Nor wash his toes but with intent

  To overturn the government,) —

  Such is our mild and tolerant way,

  We only curse them twice a day

  (According to a Form that’s set),

  And, far from torturing, only let

  All orthodox believers beat ’em,

  And twitch their beards where’er they meet ’em.

  As to the rest, they’re free to do

  Whate’er their fancy prompts them to,

  Provided they make nothing of it

  Towards rank or honor, power or profit;

  Which things we naturally expect,

  Belong to US, the Establisht sect,

  Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)

  The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.

  The same mild views of Toleration

  Inspire, I find, this buttoned nation,

  Whose Papists (full as given to rogue,

  And only Sunnites with a brogue)

  Fare just as well, with all their fuss,

  As rascal Sunnites do with us.

  The tender Gazel I enclose

  Is for my love, my Syrian Rose —

  Take it when nig
ht begins to fall,

  And throw it o’er her mother’s wall.

  GAZEL.

  Rememberest thou the hour we past, —

  That hour the happiest and the last?

  Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn

  To summer bees at break of morn,

  Not half so sweet, thro’ dale and dell,

  To Camels’ ears the tinkling bell,

  As is the soothing memory

  Of that one precious hour to me.

  How can we live, so far apart?

  Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,

  United live and die —

  Like those sweet birds, that fly together,

  With feather always touching feather,

  Linkt by a hook and eye!5

  1 I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in time to assist the Prince and Mr. Leckie in their new Oriental Plan of Reform. — See the second of these letters. — How Abdallah’s epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.

  2 Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of Shiite Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

  3 “In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breasts, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs,” etc. — Forster’s Voyage.

  4 “The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination.” — Mariti.

  5 This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah’s Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson:— “A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together.”

  LETTER VII.

  FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

  Per Post, Sir, we send your MS. — look it thro’ —

  Very sorry — but can’t undertake— ’twouldn’t do.

  Clever work, Sir! — would get up prodigiously well —

  Its only defect is — it never would sell.

  And tho’ Statesmen may glory in being unbought,

  In an Author ’tis not so desirable thought.

  Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read —

  Tho’ the gold of Good-sense and Wit’s small-change are fled,

  Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,

  Rises higher each day, and (’tis frightful to think it)

  Not even such names as Fitzgerald’s can sink it!

  However, Sir — if you’re for trying again,

  And at somewhat that’s vendible — we are your men.

  Since the Chevalier Carr1 took to marrying lately,

  The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly —

  No job, Sir, more easy — your Country once planned,

  A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land

  Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.

  An East-India pamphlet’s a thing that would tell —

  And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.

  Or — supposing you’ve nothing original in you —

  Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,

  You’ll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia!2

  (Mind — not to her dinners — a second-hand Muse

  Mustn’t think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)

  Or — in case nothing else in this world you can do —

  The deuce is in’t, Sir, if you can not review!

  Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,

  We’ve a Scheme to suggest — Mr. Scott, you must know,

  (Who, we’re sorry to say it, now works for the Row.3)

  Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,

  Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town;

  And beginning with “Rokeby” (the job’s sure to pay)

  Means to do all the Gentlemen’s Seats on the way.

  Now, the Scheme is (tho’ none of our hackneys can beat him)

  To start a fresh Poet thro’ Highgate to meet him;

  Who by means of quick proofs — no revises — long coaches —

  May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.

  Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,

  He’ll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.

  Such, Sir, is our plan — if you’re up to the freak,

  ’Tis a match! and we’ll put you in training next week.

  At present, no more — in reply to this Letter,

  A line will oblige very much

  Yours, et cetera.

  Temple of the Muses.

  1 Sir John Carr, the author of “Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden,” etc.

  2 This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

  3 Paternoster Row.

  LETTER VIII.

  FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO —— SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.

  Come to our Fête and bring with thee

  Thy newest, best embroidery.

  Come to our Fête and show again

  That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,

  Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it;

  When Brummel’s self inquired “who made it?” —

  When Cits came wondering from the East

  And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

  Oh! come, (if haply ’tis thy week

  For looking pale,) with paly cheek;

  Tho’ more we love thy roseate days,

  When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze

  Full o’er thy face and amply spread,

  Tips even thy whisker-tops with red —

  Like the last tints of dying Day

  That o’er some darkling grove delay.

  Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,

  (That lace, like Harry Alexander,

  Too precious to be washt,) thy rings,

  Thy seals — in short, thy prettiest things!

  Put all thy wardrobe’s glories on,

  And yield in frogs and fringe to none

  But the great Regent’s self alone;

  Who — by particular desire —

  For that night only, means to hire

  A dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.1

  Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents!

  Born for each other’s fond allegiance!

  Both gay Lotharios — both good dressers —

  Of serious Farce both learned Professors —

  Both circled round, for use or show,

  With cock’s combs, wheresoe’er they go!2

  Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore!

  It takes to chalk a ball-room floor —

  Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day!

  It takes to dance that chalk away.3

  The Ball-room opens — far and nigh

  Comets and suns beneath us lie;

  O’er snow-white moons and stars we walk,

  And the floor seems one sky of chalk!

  But soon shall fade that bright deceit,

  When many a maid, with busy feet

  That sparkle in the lustre’s ray,

  O’er the white path shall bound and play

  Like Nymphs along the Milky W
ay: —

  With every step a star hath fled,

  And suns grow dim beneath their tread,

  So passeth life — (thus Scott would write,

  And spinsters read him with delight,) —

  Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,

  Time is not chalk, yet time’s soon gone!

  But, hang this long digressive flight! —

  I meant to say, thou’lt see that night

  What falsehood rankles in their hearts,

  Who say the Prince neglects the arts —

  Neglects the arts? — no, Strahlweg,4 no;

  Thy Cupids answer “’tis not so;”

  And every floor that night shall tell

  How quick thou daubest and how well.

  Shine as thou mayst in French vermilion,

  Thou’rt best beneath a French cotillion;

  And still comest off, whate’er thy faults,

  With flying colors in a Waltz.

  Nor needest thou mourn the transient date

  To thy best works assigned by fate.

  While some chef-d’oeuvres live to weary one,

  Thine boast a short life and a merry one;

  Their hour of glory past and gone

  With “Molly put the kettle on!”5

  But, bless my soul! I’ve scarce a leaf

  Of paper left — so must be brief.

  This festive Fête, in fact, will be

  The former Fête’s facsimile;6

  The same long Masquerade of Rooms,

  All trickt up in such odd costumes,

  (These, Porter,7 are thy glorious works!)

  You’d swear Egyptians, Moors and Turks,

  Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,

  Had clubbed to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;

  And each to make the olio pleasant

  Had sent a State-Room as a present.

  The same fauteuils and girondoles —

  The same gold Asses,8pretty souls!

  That in this rich and classic dome

  Appear so perfectly at home.

  The same bright river ‘mong the dishes,

  But not — ah! not the same dear fishes —

  Late hours and claret killed the old ones —

  So ‘stead of silver and of gold ones,

  (It being rather hard to raise

  Fish of that specie now-a-days)

  Some sprats have been by Yarmouth’s wish,

  Promoted into Silver Fish,

  And Gudgeons (so Vansittart told

  The Regent) are as good as Gold!

  So, prithee, come — our Fête will be

  But half a Fête if wanting thee.

  1 An amateur actor of much risible renown.