Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works
Page 113
To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms;
And a lesson long lookt for was taught the opprest,
That kings are as dust before freemen in arms!
If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall
That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom’s sweet day
At length seemed to break thro’ a long night of thrall,
And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray; —
If Fancy should tell him, that Dayspring of Good,
Tho’ swiftly its light died away from his chain,
Tho’ darkly it set in a nation’s best blood,
Now wants but invoking to shine out again;
If — if, I say — breathings like these should come o’er
The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come,
Then, — perhaps — ay, perhaps — but I dare not say more;
Thou hast willed that thy slaves should be mute — I am dumb.
1 Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10, 1828, when the motion in favor of Catholic Emancipation, brought forward by the Marquis of Lansdowne, was rejected by the House of Lords.
WRITE ON, WRITE ON.
A BALLAD.
Air.— “Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear.
salvete, fratres Asini. ST. FRANCIS.
Write on, write on, ye Barons dear,
Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we’ve sought for many a year
Your quills will bring at last.
One letter more, Newcastle, pen,
To match Lord Kenyon’s two,
And more than Ireland’s host of men,
One brace of Peers will do.
Write on, write on, etc.
Sure never since the precious use
Of pen and ink began,
Did letters writ by fools produce
Such signal good to man.
While intellect, ‘mong high and low,
Is marching on, they say,
Give me the Dukes and Lords who go
Like crabs, the other way.
Write on, write on, etc.
Even now I feel the coming light —
Even now, could Folly lure
My Lord Mountcashel too to write,
Emancipation’s sure.
By geese (we read in history),
Old Rome was saved from ill;
And now to quills of geese we see
Old Rome indebted still.
Write on, write on, etc.
Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,
Nor beat for sense about —
Things little worth a Noble’s while
You’re better far without.
Oh ne’er, since asses spoke of yore,
Such miracles were done;
For, write but four such letters more,
And Freedom’s cause is won!
SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF TITHE.
“The parting Genius is with sighing sent.”
MILTON.
It is o’er, it is o’er, my reign is o’er;
I hear a Voice, from shore to shore,
From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore,
And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone,
“Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!”
Even now I behold your vanishing wings,
Ye Tenths of all conceivable things,
Which Adam first, as Doctors deem,
Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,1
After the feast of fruit abhorred —
First indigestion on record! —
Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks,
Ye pigs which, tho’ ye be Catholics,
Or of Calvin’s most select depraved,
In the Church must have your bacon saved; —
Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves,
And, whatsoever himself believes,
Must bow to the Establisht Church belief,
That the tenth is always a Protestant sheaf; —
Ye calves of which the man of Heaven
Takes Irish tithe, one calf in seven;2
Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax,
Eggs, timber, milk, fish and bees’ wax;
All things in short since earth’s creation,
Doomed, by the Church’s dispensation,
To suffer eternal decimation —
Leaving the whole lay-world, since then,
Reduced to nine parts out of ten;
Or — as we calculate thefts and arsons —
Just ten per cent. the worse for Parsons!
Alas! and is all this wise device
For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice? —
The whole put down, in the simplest way,
By the souls resolving not to pay!
And even the Papist, thankless race
Who have had so much the easiest case —
To pay for our sermons doomed, ’tis true,
But not condemned to hear them, too —
(Our holy business being, ’tis known,
With the ears of their barley, not their own,)
Even they object to let us pillage
By right divine their tenth of tillage,
And, horror of horrors, even decline
To find us in sacramental wine!3
It is o’er, it is o’er, my reign is o’er,
Ah! never shall rosy Rector more,
Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat,
And make of his flock “a prey and meat.”4
No more shall be his the pastoral sport
Of suing his flock in the Bishop’s Court,
Thro’ various steps, Citation, Libel —
Scriptures all, but not the Bible;
Working the Law’s whole apparatus,
To get at a few predoomed potatoes,
And summoning all the powers of wig,
To settle the fraction of a pig! —
Till, parson and all committed deep
In the case of “Shepherds versus Sheep,”
The Law usurps the Gospel’s place,
And on Sundays meeting face to face,
While Plaintiff fills the preacher’s station,
Defendants form the congregation.
So lives he, Mammon’s priest, not Heaven’s,
For tenths thus all at sixes and sevens,
Seeking what parsons love no less
Than tragic poets — a good distress.
Instead of studying St. Augustin,
Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin
(Books fit only to hoard dust in),
His reverence stints his evening readings
To learned Reports of Tithe Proceedings,
Sipping the while that port so ruddy,
Which forms his only ancient study; —
Port so old, you’d swear its tartar
Was of the age of Justin Martyr,
And, had he sipt of such, no doubt
His martyrdom would have been — to gout.
Is all then lost? — alas, too true —
Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu!
My reign is o’er, my reign is o’er —
Like old Thumb’s ghost, “I can no more.”
1 A reverend prebendary of Hereford, in an Essay on the Revenues of the Church of England, has assigned the origin of Tithes to “some unrecorded revelation made to Adam.”
2 “The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are seven he shall have one.” — REES’S Cyclopaedia, art. “Tithes.”
3 Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort of Church rates levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for sacramental wine.
4 Ezekiel, xxxiv., 10.— “Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any more; for I will deliver my flock from their mouth, that they may not be meat for them.”
THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.
“We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast weari
ng out. If
it be so why not let us die in peace?”
— LORD BEXLEY’S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.
Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop,
Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick Vansittart drop
Into his grave in peace.
Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun,
Young Freedom, veil thy head;
Let nothing good be thought or done,
Till Nick Vansittart’s dead!
Take pity on a dotard’s fears,
Who much doth light detest;
And let his last few drivelling years
Be dark as were the rest.
You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes,
Speed not so fast away —
Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats,
A few months longer stay.
Together soon, or much I err,
You both from life may go —
The notes unto the scavenger,
And Nick — to Nick below.
Ye Liberals, whate’er your plan,
Be all reforms suspended;
In compliment to dear old Van,
Let nothing bad be mended.
Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings,
Your cry politely cease,
And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings
That Van may die in peace.
So shall he win a fame sublime
By few old rag-men gained;
Since all shall own, in Nicky’s time,
Nor sense nor justice reigned.
So shall his name thro’ ages past,
And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from “the days of Nicholas,”
With fond and sad regret; —
And sighing say, “Alas, had he
“Been spared from Pluto’s bowers,
“The blessed reign of Bigotry
“And Rags might still be ours!”
TO THE REVEREND —— .
ONE OF THE SIXTEEN REQUISITIONISTS OF NOTTINGHAM.
1828.
What, you, too, my * * * * * *, in hashes so knowing,
Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest!
Are you, too, my savory Brunswicker, going
To make an old fool of yourself with the rest?
Far better to stick to your kitchen receipts;
And — if you want something to tease — for variety,
Go study how Ude, in his “Cookery,” treats
Live eels when he fits them for polisht society.
Just snuggling them in, ‘twixt the bars of the fire,
He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals,1
In a manner that Horner himself would admire,
And wish, ‘stead of eels, they were Catholic souls.
Ude tells us the fish little suffering feels;
While Papists of late have more sensitive grown;
So take my advice, try your hand at live eels,
And for once let the other poor devils alone.
I have even a still better receipt for your cook —
How to make a goose die of confirmed hepatitis;2
And if you’ll, for once, fellow-feelings o’erlook,
A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is.
First, catch him, alive — make a good steady fire —
Set your victim before it, both legs being tied,
(As if left to himself he might wish to retire,)
And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side.
There roasting by inches, dry, fevered, and faint,
Having drunk all the cream you so civilly laid, off,
He dies of as charming a liver complaint
As ever sleek person could wish a pie made of.
Besides, only think, my dear one of Sixteen,
What an emblem this bird, for the epicure’s use meant.
Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been
Made a tid-bit for yours and your brethren’s amusement:
Tied down to the stake, while her limbs, as they quiver,
A slow fire of tyranny wastes by degrees —
No wonder disease should have swelled up her liver,
No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease.
1 The only way, Monsieur Ude assures us, to get rid of the oil so objectionable in this fish.
2 A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are enlarged for the famous Pates de foie d’oie.
IRISH ANTIQUITIES.
According to some learned opinions
The Irish once were Carthaginians;
But trusting to more late descriptions
I’d rather say they were Egyptians.
My reason’s this: — the Priests of Isis,
When forth they marched in long array,
Employed, ‘mong other grave devices,
A Sacred Ass to lead the way;
And still the antiquarian traces
‘Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan,
For still in all religious cases
They put Lord Roden in the van.
A CURIOUS FACT.
The present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters,
For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors)
Hath one little oddity well worth reciting,
Which puzzleth observers even more than his writing.
Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold
A cold Apple-pie — mind, the pie must be cold —
His Lordship looks solemn (few people know why),
And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.
This idolatrous act in so “vital” a Peer,
Is by most serious Protestants thought rather queer —
Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head
(Vide Crustium, chap, iv.) of the Worship of Bread.
Some think ’tis a tribute, as author he owes
For the service that pie-crust hath done to his prose; —
The only good things in his pages, they swear,
Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes put there.
Others say, ’tis a homage, thro’ piecrust conveyed,
To our Glorious Deliverer’s much-honored shade;
As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please)
Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green pease,1
And ’tis solely in loyal remembrance of that,
My Lord Kenyon to apple-pie takes off his hat.
While others account for this kind salutation;” —
By what Tony Lumpkin calls “concatenation;”
A certain good-will that, from sympathy’s ties,
‘Twixt old Apple-women and Orange-men lies.
But ’tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises,
For thus, we’re assured, the whole matter arises:
Lord Kenyon’s respected old father (like many
Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny;
And loved so to save,2 that — there’s not the least question —
His death was brought on by a bad indigestion,
From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship would stuff in
At breakfast to save the expense of hot muffin.
Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies
Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes —
Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff
To the fishes that carried his kind uncle off —
And while filial piety urges so many on,
’Tis pure apple-pie-ety moves my Lord Kenyon.
1 See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs, of this polite hero appropriating to himself one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas — the first of the season — while the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by vainly entreating with her eyes for a share.
2 The same prudent propensity characterizes his descendant, who (as is well known) would not even go to
the expense of a diphthong on his father’s monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, thus:— “mors janua vita”
NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.
Sir, —
Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. “What noise is that?” asked the angry judge. “Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord,” answered one of the counsel.
As there are a number of such “extraordinary echoes” abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.
Yours, etc. S.
1828
huc coeamus,1 ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono, coeamus, retulit echo. OVID.
There are echoes, we know, of all sorts,
From the echo that “dies in the dale,”
To the “airy-tongued babbler” that sports
Up the tide of the torrent her “tale.”
There are echoes that bore us, like Blues,
With the latest smart mot they have heard;
There are echoes extremely like shrews
Letting nobody have the last word.
In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too.
Certain “talented” echoes2 there dwell,
Who on being askt, “How do you do?”
Politely reply, Pretty well,”
But why should I talk any more
Of such old-fashioned echoes as these,
When Britain has new ones in store,
That transcend them by many degrees?
For of all repercussions of sound
Concerning which bards make a pother,
There’s none like that happy rebound
When one blockhead echoes an other; —
When Kenyon commences the bray,
And the Borough-Duke follows his track;
And loudly from Dublin’s sweet bay
Rathdowne brays, with interest, back! —
And while, of most echoes the sound
On our ear by reflection doth fall,
These Brunswickers3 pass the bray round,
Without any reflection at all.
Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,
Who can name all the echoes there are
From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue,
From Benledi to wild Uamvar;
I might track thro’ each hard Irish name
The rebounds of this asinine strain,
Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came
To the chief Neddy, Kenyon, again;