Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any.

  Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer,

  And marry him, off hand, in some given year,

  To the daughter of somebody, — no matter who, —

  Fig, the grocer himself, if you’re hard run, will do;

  For, the Medici pills still in heraldry tell,

  And why shouldn’t lollypops quarter as well?

  Thus, having your couple, and one a lord’s cousin,

  Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen;

  And ’tis hard if, inventing each small mother’s son of ’em,

  You can’t somehow manage to prove yourself one of ’em.

  Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory,

  Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory,

  I’ve merely to hint, as a secret auricular,

  One grand rule of enterprise, — don’t be particular.

  A man who once takes such a jump at nobility,

  Must not mince the matter, like folks of nihility,

  But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.

  ’Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings,

  Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things;

  As oft, when the vision is near brought about,

  Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out;

  Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods,

  And one’s patent of peerage is left in the suds.

  But there are ways — when folks are resolved to be lords —

  Of expurging even troublesome parish records.

  What think ye of scissors? depend on’t no heir

  Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair,

  As whate’er else the learned in such lore may invent,

  Your scissors does wonders in proving descent.

  Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears

  With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers,

  But they’re naught to that weapon which shines in the hands

  Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands

  O’er the careless churchwarden’s baptismal array,

  And sweeps at each cut generations away.

  By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted?

  One snip, — and the urchin hath never existed!

  Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere

  With his one sublime object of being a Peer?

  Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride, —

  No such people have ever lived, married or died!

  Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves,

  Who’ve a fancy for making great lords of themselves.

  Follow this, young aspirer who pant’st for a peerage,

  Take S — m for thy model and B — z for thy steerage,

  Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does,

  And — who knows but you’ll be Lord Baron of Shamdos?

  1 The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by the late Sir Egerinton Brydges.

  THE DUKE IS THE LAD.

  Air.— “A master I have, and I am his man,

  Galloping dreary dun.”

  “Castle of Andalusia.”

  The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass.

  Galloping, dreary duke;

  The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,

  He’s an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,

  With his charger prancing,

  Grim eye glancing,

  Chin, like a Mufti,

  Grizzled and tufty,

  Galloping, dreary Duke.

  Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood

  Of this galloping dreary Duke;

  Avoid him, all who see no good

  In being run o’er by a Prince of the Blood.

  For, surely, no nymph is

  Fond of a grim phiz.

  And of the married,

  Whole crowds have miscarried

  At sight of this dreary Duke.

  EPISTLE

  FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.

  Southampton.

  As ’tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started

  By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted

  To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,

  Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,

  And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,

  To a man who’s been dead now for three hundred years,

  I take up my pen, and with news of this earth

  Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

  In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,

  Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,

  I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore

  You took lessons from Paetus in cookery’s lore.

  Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,

  To discuss the rich merits of rôtis and stews,

  And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy,

  A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy.

  Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile,

  I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle,

  (A conveyance you ne’er, I think, sailed by, my Tully,

  And therefore, per next, I’ll describe it more fully,)

  Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly,

  That England’s o’errun by idolaters lately,

  Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone,

  Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone.

  Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black,

  Who from sports continental was hurrying back,

  To look after his tithes; — seeing, doubtless, ’twould follow,

  That just as of old your great idol, Apollo,

  Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question,

  These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion,

  And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises,

  May eat up the tithe-pig which he idolizes.

  London.

  ’Tis all but too true — grim Idolatry reigns

  In full pomp over England’s lost cities and plains!

  On arriving just now, as my first thought and care

  Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer,

  Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on,

  I was shown to — what think you? — a downright Pantheon!

  A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls,

  Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul’s; —

  Tho’ ’tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew

  Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue;

  And, ‘mong all the “strange gods” Abr’ham’s father carved out,1

  That he ever carv’d stranger than these I much doubt.

  Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces,

  And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints’ places,

  I shouldnt much mind, — for in this classic dome

  Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home.

  But the gods they’ve got here! — such a queer omnium gatherum

  Of misbegot things that no poet would father ’em; —

  Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies, —

  Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise, —

  Father Nile, too, — a portrait, (in spite of what’s said,

  That no mortal e’er yet got a glimpse of his head,)

  And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for’t,

  Unless ’twas some full-grown Director had sat for’t; —

  Not to mention the et caeteras of Genii and Sphinxes,

  Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes; —

  Sea Captains,2 — the idols here most idolized;

  And of wh
om some, alas! might too well be comprized

  Among ready-made Saints, as they died cannonized;

  With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities,

  Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it ’tis;

  Nor know I what better the Rector could do

  Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too;

  As most surely a tithe-pig, whate’er the world thinks, is

  A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is.

  But I’m called off to dinner — grace just has been said,

  And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.

  1 Joshua xxiv 2.

  2 Captains Mosse, Riou etc.

  LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.1

  at Paris2 et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.

  vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas.

  OVID. Metam. lib. xiii. v. 202.

  Go, Brothers in wisdom — go, bright pair of Peers,

  And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!

  The one, the best lover we have — of his years,

  And the other Prime Statesman of Britain’s dominions.

  Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile

  Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee;

  Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile,

  And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee.

  Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,

  Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,

  But show the young Misses thou’rt scholar enough

  To translate “Amor Fortis” a love, about forty!

  And sure ’tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars,

  From the battle you came, with the Orders you’d earned in’t,

  That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out “My stars!”

  And forget that the Moon, too, was some way concerned in’t.

  For not the great Regent himself has endured

  (Tho’ I’ve seen him with badges and orders all shine,

  Till he lookt like a house that was over insured)

  A much heavier burden of glories than thine.

  And ’tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is,

  Or any young ladies can so go astray,

  As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies,

  The stars are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they!

  Thou, too, t’other brother, thou Tully of Tories,

  Thou Malaprop Cicero, over whose lips

  Such a smooth rigmarole about; “monarchs,” and “glories,”

  And “nullidge,” and “features,” like syllabub slips.

  Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation

  Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours,

  Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation

  Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors.

  Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers,

  And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!

  The one, the best lover we have — of his years,

  And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain’s dominions.

  1 This and the following squib, which must have been written about the year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced.

  2 Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was “at Paris” these rapacious transactions took place — we should read “at Vienna.”

  TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD CASTLEREAGH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT.

  Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3.

  So may my Lady’s prayers prevail,

  And Canning’s too, and lucid Bragge’s,

  And Eldon beg a favoring gale

  From Eolus, that older Bags,

  To speed thee on thy destined way,

  Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,

  Our gracious Regent’s better half

  And therefore quarter of a King —

  (As Van or any other calf

  May find without much figuring).

  Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,

  Waft this Lord of place and pelf,

  Any where his Lordship pleases,

  Tho’ ‘twere to Old Nick himself!

  Oh, what a face of brass was his.

  Who first at Congress showed his phiz —

  To sign away the Rights of Man

  To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;

  And leave the sinking African

  To fall without one saving struggle —

  ‘Mong ministers from North and South,

  To show his lack of shame and sense,

  And hoist the sign of “Bull and Mouth”

  For blunders and for eloquence!

  In vain we wish our Secs, at home

  To mind their papers, desks, and shelves,

  If silly Secs, abroad will roam

  And make such noodles of themselves.

  But such hath always been the case —

  For matchless impudence of face,

  There’s nothing like your Tory race!

  First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her

  A taste for famine, fire and slaughter.

  Then came the Doctor, for our ease,

  With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies,

  And other deadly maladies.

  When each in turn had run their rigs,

  Necessity brought in the Whigs:

  And oh! I blush, I blush to say,

  When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,

  Illustrious TEMPLE flew away

  With lots of pens he had no right to.1

  In short, what will not mortal man do?

  And now, that — strife and bloodshed past —

  We’ve done on earth what harm we can do,

  We gravely take to heaven at last

  And think its favoring smile to purchase

  (Oh Lord, good Lord!) by — building churches!

  1 This alludes to the 1200l. worth of stationery, which his Lordship is said to have ordered, when on the point of vacating his place.

  SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.

  “And now,” quoth the goddess, in accents jocose,

  “Having got good materials, I’ll brew such a dose

  “Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say,

  “They’ve not known its equal for many a long day.”

  Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady,

  And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready.

  “So, now for the ingredients: — first, hand me that bishop;”

  Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up

  From out a large reservoir wherein they pen ’em

  The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom;

  And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze,

  And one “drop of the immortal”1 Right Rev.2 they might lose)

  In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews,

  Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst

  From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!

  “Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor,” muttered the dame —

  “He who’s called after Harry the Older, by name.”

  “The Ex-Chancellor!” echoed her imps, the whole crew of ’em —

  “Why talk of one Ex, when your Mischief has two of ’em?”

  “True, true,” said the hag, looking arch at her elves,

  “And a double-Ex dose they compose, in themselves.”

  This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly,

  Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly.

  So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising)

  Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising;

  While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted

  With joy to see spirits so twin-like united —

  Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather,

  In one mess of v
enom thus spitted together.

  Here a flashy imp rose — some connection, no doubt,

  Of the young lord in question — and, scowling about,

  “Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out;

  “As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree,

  “Loved mischief, pure mischief, more dearly than he.”

  But, no — the wise hag wouldnt hear of the whipster;

  Not merely because, as a shrew, he eclipst her,

  And nature had given him, to keep him still young,

  Much tongue in his head and no head in his tongue;

  But because she well knew that, for change ever ready,

  He’d not even to mischief keep properly steady:

  That soon even the wrong side would cease to delight,

  And, for want of a change, he must swerve to the right;

  While, on each, so at random his missiles he threw,

  That the side he attackt was most safe, of the two. —

  This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf,

  There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself.

  “And now,” quoth the hag, as her caldron she eyed.

  And the tidbits so friendlily rankling inside,

  “There wants but some seasoning; — so, come, ere I stew ’em,

  “By way of a relish we’ll throw in John Tuam.’

  “In cooking up mischief, there’s no flesh or fish

  “Like your meddling High Priest, to add zest to the dish.”

  Thus saying, she pops in the Irish Grand Lama —

  Which great event ends the First Act of the Drama.

  1 To lose no drop of the immortal man.

  2 The present Bishop of Exeter.

  ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

  Tho’ famed was Mesmer, in his day,

  Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet,

  To say nothing of all the wonders done

  By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson,

  When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he

  Up waves his arm, and — down drops Okey!1

  Tho’ strange these things, to mind and sense,

  If you wish still stranger things to see —

  If you wish to know the power immense

  Of the true magnetic influence,

  Just go to her Majesty’s Treasury,

  And learn the wonders working there —

  And I’ll be hanged if you dont stare!

  Talk of your animal magnetists,

  And that wave of the hand no soul resists,

  Not all its witcheries can compete

  With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street,