Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Without any effort of fancy, at all;

  Little thought’st thou the world would in Overton find

  A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind,

  But as perfect as Michaelmas’ self could produce,

  By gods yclept anser, by mortals a goose.

  1 “Your Lordship,” says Mr. Overton, in the Dedication of his Poem to the Bishop of Chester,” has kindly expressed your persuasion that my Muse will always be a ‘Muse of sacred song and that it will be tuned as David’s was.’”

  2 Sophocles.

  SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED “MATRICULATION.”1

  [Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him. —

  Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

  Doctor P. — There, my lad, lie the

  Articles — (Boy begins to count them) just thirty nine —

  No occasion to count — you’ve now only to sign.

  At Cambridge where folks are less High-church than we,

  The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lumped into Three.

  Let’s run o’er the items; — there ‘a Justification,

  Predestination, and Supererogation —

  Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian,

  Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess’s Ratification.

  That is sufficient — now, sign — having read quite enough,

  You “believe in the full and true meaning thereof?”

  (Boy stares.)

  Oh! a mere form of words, to make things smooth and brief, —

  A commodious and short make-believe of belief,

  Which our Church has drawn up in a form thus articular

  To keep out in general all who’re particular.

  But what’s the boy doing? what! reading all thro’,

  And my luncheon fast cooling! — this never will do.

  Boy (poring over the Articles). —

  Here are points which — pray, Doctor, what’s “Grace of Congruity?”

  Doctor P. (sharply). — You’ll find out, young sir, when

  you’ve more ingenuity.

  At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely.

  Whate’er it may be, to believe it sincerely,

  Both in dining and signing we take the same plan, —

  First, swallow all down, then digest — as we can.

  Boy (still reading). — I’ve to gulp, I see, St. Athanasius’s

  Creed,

  Which. I’m told, is a very tough morsel indeed;

  As he damns —

  Doctor P. (aside). — Ay, and so would I, willingly, too, All confounded particular young boobies, like you. This comes of Reforming! — all’s o’er with our land, When people wont stand what they can’t under-stand; Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine Were made not for men to believe but to sign. Exit Dr. P. in a passion.

  1 It appears that when a youth of fifteen went to be matriculated at Oxford, he was required first to subscribe the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religious Belief.

  LATE TITHE CASE.

  “sic vos non vobis.”

  1833.

  “The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, in duty to what he owes to his successors, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage.” — Letter from Mr. S. Powell, August 6.

  No, not for yourselves, ye reverend men,

  Do you take one pig in every ten,

  But for Holy Church’s future heirs,

  Who’ve an abstract right to that pig, as theirs;

  The law supposing that such heirs male

  Are already seized of the pig, in tail.

  No, not for himself hath Birmingham’s priest

  His “well-beloved” of their pennies fleeced:

  But it is that, before his prescient eyes,

  All future Vicars of Birmingham rise,

  With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces,

  And ’tis for them the poor he fleeces.

  He heareth their voices, ages hence

  Saying, “Take the pig”— “oh take the pence;”

  The cries of little Vicarial dears,

  The unborn Birminghamites, reach his ears;

  And, did he resist that soft appeal,

  He would not like a true-born Vicar feel.

  Thou, too, Lundy of Lackington!

  A rector true, if e’er there was one,

  Who, for sake of the Lundies of coming ages,

  Gripest the tenths of laborer’s wages.1

  ’Tis true, in the pockets of thy small-clothes

  The claimed “obvention”2of four-pence goes;

  But its abstract spirit, unconfined,

  Spreads to all future Rector-kind,

  Warning them all to their rights to wake,

  And rather to face the block, the stake,

  Than give up their darling right to take.

  One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes

  (So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms,

  And a single four-pence, pocketed well,

  Thro’ a thousand rectors’ lives will tell.

  Then still continue, ye reverend souls,

  And still as your rich Pactolus rolls,

  Grasp every penny on every side,

  From every wretch, to swell its tide:

  Remembering still what the Law lays down,

  In that pure poetic style of its own.

  “If the parson in esse submits to loss, he

  “Inflicts the same on the parson in posse.”

  1 Fourteen agricultural laborers (one of whom received so little as six guineas for yearly wages, one eight, one nine, another ten guineas, and the best paid of the whole not more than 18l. annually) were all, in the course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of 4d. in the 1l. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. Lundy, Rector of Lackington, etc. — The Times, August, 1833.

  2 One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, etc., are comprised.

  FOOLS’ PARADISE.

  DREAM THE FIRST.

  I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,

  To a realm they call Fool’s Paradise,

  Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,

  And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.

  But they wanted not in this happy place,

  Where a light of its own gilds every face;

  Or if some wear a shadowy brow,

  ’Tis the wish to look wise, — not knowing how.

  Self-glory glistens o’er all that’s there,

  The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;

  The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,

  The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose,

  The falling founts in a titter fall,

  And the sun looks simpering down on all.

  Oh, ’tisn’t in tongue or pen to trace

  The scenes I saw in that joyous place.

  There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,

  In converse sweet, “What charming weather! —

  “You’ll all rejoice to hear, I’m sure,

  “Lord Charles has got a good sinecure;

  “And the Premier says, my youngest brother

  “(Him in the Guards) shall have another.

  “Isnt this very, very gallant! —

  “As for my poor old virgin aunt,

  “Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist,

  “We must quarter her on the Pension List.”

  Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled;

  It seemed like an Age of real gold,

  Where all who liked might have a slice,

  So rich was that Fools’ Paradise.

  But the sport at which most time they spent,

  Was a puppet-show, called Parliament

  Performed by wooden Ciceros,

  As large as life, who rose
to prose,

  While, hid behind them, lords and squires,

  Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires;

  And thought it the very best device

  Of that most prosperous Paradise,

  To make the vulgar pay thro’ the nose

  For them and their wooden Ciceros.

  And many more such things I saw

  In this Eden of Church and State and Law;

  Nor e’er were known such pleasant folk

  As those who had the best of the joke.

  There were Irish Rectors, such as resort

  To Cheltenham yearly, to drink — port,

  And bumper, “Long may the Church endure,

  “May her cure of souls be a sinecure,

  “And a score of Parsons to every soul

  “A moderate allowance on the whole.”

  There were Heads of Colleges lying about,

  From which the sense had all run out,

  Even to the lowest classic lees,

  Till nothing was left but quantities;

  Which made them heads most fit to be

  Stuck up on a University,

  Which yearly hatches, in its schools,

  Such flights of young Elysian fools.

  Thus all went on, so snug and nice,

  In this happiest possible Paradise.

  But plain it was to see, alas!

  That a downfall soon must come to pass.

  For grief is a lot the good and wise

  Dont quite so much monopolize,

  But that (“lapt in Elysium” as they are)

  Even blessed fools must have their share.

  And so it happened: — but what befell,

  In Dream the Second I mean to tell.

  THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE; OR, ONE POUND TWO.

  “I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR COX-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor.” — Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons.

  The account is balanced — the bill drawn out, —

  The debit and credit all right, no doubt —

  The Rector rolling in wealth and state,

  Owes to his Curate six pound eight;

  The Curate, that least well-fed of men,

  Owes to his Rector seven pound ten,

  Which maketh the balance clearly due

  From Curate to Rector, one pound two.

  Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven!

  But sure to be all set right in heaven,

  Where bills like these will be checkt, some day,

  And the balance settled the other way:

  Where Lyons the curate’s hard-wrung sum

  Will back to his shade with interest come;

  And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue

  This tot, in his favor, of one pound two.

  PADDY’S METAMORPHOSIS.

  1833.

  About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,

  That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,

  Of shipping off Ireland’s most turbulent Paddies,

  As good raw material for settlers, abroad.

  Some West-India island, whose name I forget,

  Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic;

  And such the success the first colony met,

  That a second, soon after, set sail o’er the Atlantic.

  Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore,

  Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,

  And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,

  They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.

  And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came —

  “Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?”

  While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name

  Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!

  Can it possibly be? — half amazement — half doubt,

  Pat listens again — rubs his eyes and looks steady;

  Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,

  “Good Lord! only think, — black and curly already!”

  Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears,

  Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures,

  And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,

  To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!

  MORAL.

  ’Tis thus, — but alas! by a marvel more true

  Than is told in this rival of Ovid’s best stories, —

  Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two,

  By a lusus naturae, all turn into Tories.

  And thus, when I hear them “strong measures” advise,

  Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady,

  I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes,

  “Good Lord! only think, — black and curly already!”

  COCKER, ON CHURCH REFORM.

  FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS.

  1833.

  Fine figures of speech let your orators follow,

  Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow.

  Tho’ famed for his rules Aristotle may be,

  In but half of this Sage any merit I see,

  For, as honest Joe Hume says, the “tottle” for me!

  For instance, while others discuss and debate,

  It is thus about Bishops I ratiocinate.

  In England, where, spite of the infidel’s laughter,

  ’Tis certain our souls are lookt very well after,

  Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered)

  Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred. —

  Said number of parishes, under said teachers,

  Containing three millions of Protestant creatures, —

  So that each of said Bishops full ably controls

  One million and five hundred thousands of souls.

  And now comes old Cocker. In Ireland we’re told, Half a million includes the whole Protestant fold; If, therefore, for three million souls, ’tis conceded Two proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed, ’Tis plain, for the Irish half million who want ’em, One-third of one Bishop is just the right quantum. And thus, by old Cocker’s sublime Rule of Three, The Irish Church question’s resolved to a T; Keeping always that excellent maxim in view, That, in saving men’s souls, we must save money too.

  Nay, if — as St. Roden complains is the case —

  The half million of soul is decreasing apace,

  The demand, too, for bishop will also fall off,

  Till the tithe of one, taken in kind be enough.

  But, as fractions imply that we’d have to dissect,

  And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object.

  We’ve a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare,

  Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair,

  And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch.

  We’ll let her have Exeter, sole, as her Church.

  LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.

  1834.

  “We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons.”— “Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus,” chap. xii.

  It being an object now to meet

  With Parsons that dont want to eat,

  Fit men to fill those Irish rectories,

  Which soon will have but scant refectories,

  It has been suggested, — lest that Church

  Should all at once be left in the lurch

  For want of reverend men endued
<
br />   With this gift of never requiring food, —

  To try, by way of experiment, whether

  There couldnt be made of wood and leather,1

  (Howe’er the notion may sound chimerical,)

  Jointed figures, not lay,2 but clerical,

  Which, wound up carefully once a week,

  Might just like parsons look and speak,

  Nay even, if requisite, reason too,

  As well as most Irish parsons do.

  The experiment having succeeded quite,

  (Whereat those Lords must much delight,

  Who’ve shown, by stopping the Church’s food,

  They think it isnt for her spiritual good

  To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,)

  The Patentees of this new invention

  Beg leave respectfully to mention,

  They now are enabled to produce

  An ample supply for present use,

  Of these reverend pieces of machinery,

  Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery,

  Or any such-like post of skill

  That wood and leather are fit to fill.

  N.B. — In places addicted to arson,

  We cant recommend a wooden parson:

  But if the Church any such appoints,

  They’d better at least have iron joints.

  In parts, not much by Protestants haunted,

  A figure to look at’s all that’s wanted —

  A block in black, to eat and sleep,

  Which (now that the eating’s o’er) comes cheap.

  P.S. — Should the Lords, by way of a treat,

  Permit the clergy again to eat,

  The Church will of course no longer need

  Imitation-parsons that never feed;

  And these wood creatures of ours will sell

  For secular purposes just as well —

  Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout,

  May, ‘stead of beating their own about,

  Be knocking the brains of Papists out;

  While our smooth O’Sullivans, by all means,

  Should transmigrate into turning machines.

  1 The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.

  2 The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called “lay figures”.

  HOW TO MAKE ONE’S SELF A PEER.

  ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,1

  1834.

  Choose some title that’s dormant — the Peerage hath many —