Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works
Page 103
For tools of this kind, like Martinus’s sconce.4
Would loose all their beauty if purified once;
And think — only think — if our Father should find.
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,5
That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser —
That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser —
That R — d — r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter —
Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter —
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No! — far were such dreams of improvement from me:
And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,6
There’s such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa,7
That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy,
And my Yarmouth’s red whiskers grew redder for joy.
You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last sessions I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have soothed her with hope — but you know I did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that while he has been laid on the shelf
We’ve been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes — but the Doctors and I
Are the last that can think the King ever will die.8
A new era’s arrived9 — tho’ you’d hardly believe it —
And all things of course must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fêtes (which even Waithman attends) —
New saddles, new helmets, and — why not new friends?
* * * * *
I repeat it, “New Friends” — for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe.
Such capering! — Such vaporing! — Such rigor! — Such vigor!
North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure,
That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,
And leave us no friends — but Old Nick and Algiers.
When I think of the glory they’ve beamed on my chains,
’Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains.
It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we find our Allies in new breeches!
We’ve lost the warm hearts of the Irish, ’tis granted,
But then we’ve got Java, an island much wanted,
To put the last lingering few who remain,
Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.
Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother!
For Papists the one and with Papists the other;
One crushing Napoleon by taking a City,
While t’other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee.
Oh deeds of renown! — shall I boggle or flinch,
With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch.
No — let England’s affairs go to rack, if they will,
We’ll look after the affairs of the Continent still;
And with nothing at home but starvation and riot,
Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet.
I am proud to declare I have no predilections,10
My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections
Are just danced about for a moment or two,
And the finer they are, the more sure to run thro’;
Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill
To mortal — except (now I think on’t) Beau Brummel,
Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion,
To cut me and bring the old King into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present;
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumbered by faith in my dealings
(And that I’m consistent the world will allow,
What I was at Newmarket the same I am now).
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),
I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking,
“To meet with the generous and kind approbation
“Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation.”
By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter,
(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,)
’Twould please me if those, whom I’ve humbugged so long11
With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong,
Would a few of them join me — mind, only a few —
To let too much light in on me never would do;
But even Grey’s brightness shan’t make me afraid,
While I’ve Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade;
Nor will Holland’s clear intellect do us much harm,
While there’s Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm.
As for Moira’s high spirit, if aught can subdue it.
Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it!
Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit,
And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan’s wit:
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
Even in Whitbread himself we’ve a Host in George Rose!
So in short if they wish to have Places, they may,
And I’ll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.12
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there’s no time to lose)
By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news;
And now, dearest Fred (tho’ I’ve no predilection),
Believe me yours always with truest affection.
P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going13
Good Lord, how St. Stephen’s will ring with his crowing!
1 Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, Feb. 13, 1812.
2 “I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament. — Prince’s Letter.
3 “My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice.” — Ibid.
4 The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.
5 “I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative,” etc. — Prince’s Letter.
6 “And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment,” etc — Ibid.
7 The letter-writer’s favorite luncheon.
8 I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father’s recovery.” — Prince’s Letter.
9 “A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with satisfaction,” etc. — Ibid.
10 “I have no predilections to indulge, — no resentments to gratify.” — Prince’s Letter.
11 “I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government” — Prince’s Letter.
12 “You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville.” — Prince’s Letter.
13 “I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval.”- Prince’s Letter.
ANACREONTIC TO A PLUMASSIER.
Fine and feathery artisan,
Best of Plumists (if you can
With your art so far presume)
Make for me a Prince’s Plume —
Fe
athers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a Prince to wear.
First thou downiest of men,
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno’s side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand.
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on Prince’s crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior’s Cupid.
Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.
Pluck him well — be sure you do —
Who wouldnt be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a Royal crest?
Bravo, Plumist! — now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl —
Bigot bird that hates the light,1
Foe to all that’s fair and bright.
Seize his quills, (so formed to pen
Books2 that shun the search of men;
Books that, far from every eye,
In “sweltered venom sleeping” lie,)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.
Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;
Sullied now — alas, how much!
Only fit for Yarmouth’s touch.
There — enough — thy task is done;
Present, worthy George’s Son;
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write “I SERVE,” and all’s complete.
1 Perceval.
2 In allusion to “the Book” which created such a sensation at that period.
EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.
Wednesday.
Thro’ Manchester Square took a canter just now —
Met the old yellow chariot1 and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking ’twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look — oh! ’twas black as the devil!
How unlucky! — incog. he was travelling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
Mem. — when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.
Thursday.
At Levee to-day made another sad blunder —
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife —
“Fine weather,” says he — to which I, who must prate,
Answered, “Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late.”
He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,
That before all the courtiers I feared they’d come off,
And then, Lord, how Geramb2 would triumphantly scoff!
Mem. — to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers — sure road to promotion!3
Saturday.
Last night a Concert — vastly gay —
Given by Lady Castlereagh.
My Lord loves music, and we know
Has “two strings always to his bow.”4
In choosing songs, the Regent named
“Had I a heart for falsehood framed.”
While gentle Hertford begged and prayed
For “Young I am and sore afraid.”
1 The incog. vehicle of the Prince.
2 Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.
3 England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. “I remember,” says Tavernier, “to have seen one of the King of Persia’s porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension.”
4 A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.
EPIGRAM.
What news to-day?— “Oh! worse and worse —
“Mac1 is the Prince’s Privy Purse!” —
The Prince’s Purse! no, no, you fool,
You mean the Prince’s Ridicule.
1 Colonel M’Mahon.
KING CRACK1
AND HIS IDOLS.
WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.
King Crack was the best of all possible Kings,
(At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)
But Crack now and then would do heterodox things,
And at last took to worshipping Images sadly.
Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed
In his father’s old Cabinet, pleased him so much,
That he knelt down and worshipt, tho’ — such was his taste! —
They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.
And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack! —
But his People disdaining to worship such things
Cried aloud, one and all, “Come, your Godships must pack —
“You’ll not do for us, tho’ you may do for Kings.”
Then trampling these images under their feet,
They sent Crack a petition, beginning “Great Caesar!
“We’re willing to worship; but only entreat
“That you’ll find us some decenter godheads than these are.”
“I’ll try,” says King Crack — so they furnisht him models
Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back;
Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles,
In short they were all much too godlike for Crack.
So he took to his darling old Idols again,
And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,
In open defiance of Gods and of man,
Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.
1 One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.
WHAT’S MY THOUGHT LIKE?
Quest. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!
EPIGRAM. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.
Said his Highness to Ned,1 with that grim face of his,
“Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?”
“Because, Sir,” said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
“You’re forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!”
1 Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.
WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.
AN ANACREONTIC.
Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from old Brompton’s bowers —
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King’s well-odored Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gayly twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us —
Flora, sure, will love to please
England’s Household Deities!1
First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily —
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish Gifford can supply; —
; Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eldon’s wig.
Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of Liverpool.
‘Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffered (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris City.
Next, our Castlereagh to crown,
Bring me from the County Down,
Withered Shamrocks which have been
Gilded o’er to hide the green —
(Such as Headfort brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick’s Day)2 —
Stitch the garland thro’ and thro’
With shabby threads of every hue —
And as, Goddess! — entre nous —
His Lordship loves (tho’ best of men)
A little torture now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.
That’s enough — away, away —
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose —
How the Doctor’s3 brow should smile
Crowned with wreaths of camomile.
But time presses — to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!
1 The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods.
2 Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick’s Day.
3 The sobriquet given to Lord Sidmouth.
EPIGRAM. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH’S FETE.
“I want the Court Guide,” said my lady, “to look
“If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20.” —
“We’ve lost the Court Guide, Ma’am, but here’s the Red Book.
“Where you’ll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!”
HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.
FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.1
Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains,
About what your old crony,
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy’s plains;
Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:
Should there come famine,
Still plenty to cram in