Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  I found myself, in a second or so,

  At the table of Messrs. Type and Co.

  With a goodly group of diners sitting; —

  All in the printing and publishing line,

  Drest, I thought, extremely fine,

  And sipping like lords their rosy wine;

  While I in a state near inanition

  With coat that hadn’t much nap to spare

  (Having just gone into its second edition),

  Was the only wretch of an author there.

  But think, how great was my surprise,

  When I saw, in casting round my eyes,

  That the dishes, sent up by Type’s she-cooks,

  Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books;

  Large folios — God knows where they got ’em,

  In these small times — at top and bottom;

  And quartos (such as the Press provides

  For no one to read them) down the sides.

  Then flasht a horrible thought on my brain,

  And I said to myself, “’Tis all too plain,

  “Like those well known in school quotations,

  “Who ate up for dinner their own relations,

  “I see now, before me, smoking here,

  “The bodies and bones of my brethren dear; —

  “Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse,

  “All cut up in cutlets, or hasht in stews;

  “Their works, a light thro’ ages to go, —

  “Themselves, eaten up by Type and Co.!”

  While thus I moralized, on they went,

  Finding the fare most excellent:

  And all so kindly, brother to brother,

  Helping the tidbits to each other:

  “A slice of Southey let me send you” —

  “This cut of Campbell I recommend you” —

  “And here, my friends, is a treat indeed,

  “The immortal Wordsworth fricasseed!”

  Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time,

  Upon joints of poetry — all of the prime —

  With also (as Type in a whisper averred it)

  “Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferred it” —

  They rested awhile, to recruit their force,

  Then pounced, like kites, on the second course,

  Which was singing-birds merely — Moore and others —

  Who all went the way of their larger brothers;

  And, numerous now tho’ such songsters be,

  ’Twas really quite distressing to see

  A whole dishful of Toms — Moore, Dibdin, Bayly, —

  Bolted by Type and Co. so gayly!

  Nor was this the worst — I shudder to think

  What a scene was disclosed when they came to drink.

  The warriors of Odin, as every one knows,

  Used to drink out of skulls of slaughtered foes:

  And Type’s old port, to my horror I found,

  Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round.

  And still as each well-filled cranium came,

  A health was pledged to its owner’s name;

  While Type said slyly, midst general laughter,

  “We eat them up first, then drink to them after.”

  There was no standing this — incensed I broke

  From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke,

  Exclaiming, “Oh shades of other times,

  “Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes,

  “Could you e’er have foretold a day would be,

  “When a dreamer of dreams should live to see

  “A party of sleek and honest John Bulls

  “Hobnobbing each other in poets’ skulls!”

  1 Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.

  CHURCH EXTENSION.

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

  Sir — A well-known classical traveller, while employed in exploring, some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a very ancient bark manuscript, which has turned out, on examination, to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper; — a newspaper published, as you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great Shrine-Extender,1 flourished.

  I am, Sir, yours, etc.

  EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

  Second edition.

  Important event for the rich and religious!

  Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen Square; —

  Church Extension, their object, — the excitement prodigious; —

  Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair!

  Third edition.

  The Chairman still up, when our devil came away;

  Having prefaced his speech with the usual state prayer,

  That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day,

  Take the Silversmiths’ Company under her care.

  Being askt by some low, unestablisht divines,

  “When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?”

  He manfully answered, “Let us build the shrines,2

  “And we care not if flocks are found for them or not.”

  He then added — to show that the Silversmiths’ Guild

  Were above all confined and intolerant views —

  “Only pay thro’ the nose to the altars we build,

  “You may pray thro’ the nose to what altars you choose.”

  This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer’s lip

  (Tho’ a tolerance mixt with due taste for the till) —

  So much charmed all the holders of scriptural scrip,

  That their shouts of “Hear!” “Hear!” are re-echoing still.

  Fourth edition.

  Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus

  Are going dog-cheap — may be had for a rebus.

  Old Dian’s, as usual, outsell all the rest; —

  But Venus’s also are much in request.

  1 “For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen: whom he called together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth[…to be completed…

  2 The “shrines” are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples.

  LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

  As news from Olympus has grown rather rare,

  Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch there,

  We extract for our readers the intelligence given,

  In our latest accounts from that ci-devant Heaven —

  That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state

  Old god-heads and nod-heads now long out of date.

  Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o’er,

  Seems to find immortality rather a bore;

  Tho’ he still asks for news of earth’s capers and crimes,

  And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, the Times.

  He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-peckt are,

  And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

  Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,

  And packt off to earth on a puff speculation.

  The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim,

  Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him.

  So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags.

  Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the Mags;

  Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in’t,

  From which men could guess that the god had a finger in’t.

  There are other small facts, well deserving attention,

  Of which our Olympic despatches make mention.

  Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege,

  Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge.

  “What, the Irish!” he cried— “those I lookt to the most!

  “
If they give up the spirit, I give up the ghost:”

  While Momus, who used of the gods to make fun,

  Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none!

  But these changes, tho’ curious, are all a mere farce

  Compared to the new “casus belli” of Mars,

  Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet,

  Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot!

  In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow

  Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow,

  Like Pat at a fair, he might “coax up a row:”

  But the joke wouldn’t take — the whole world had got wiser;

  Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser;

  And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot,

  Without very well knowing for whom or for what.

  The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing,

  Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King;

  While, in England, good fighting’s a pastime so hard to gain,

  Nobody’s left to fight with, but Lord Cardigan.

  ’Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy

  Old Mars has been made by what’s now on the tapis;

  How much it delights him to see the French rally,

  In Liberty’s name, around Mehemet Ali;

  Well knowing that Satan himself could not find

  A confection of mischief much more to his mind

  Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw combined.

  Right well, too, he knows, that there ne’er were attackers,

  Whatever their cause, that they didnt find backers;

  While any slight care for Humanity’s woes

  May be soothed by that “Art Diplomatique,” which shows

  How to come in the most approved method to blows.

  This is all for to-day — whether Mars is much vext

  At his friend Thiers’s exit, we’ll know by our next.

  THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

  Our earth, as it rolls thro’ the regions of space,

  Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny;

  And poor human life runs the same sort of race,

  Being sad on one side — on the other side, funny.

  Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie,

  To weep o’er the woes of Macready; — but scarce

  Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye,

  When lo! we’re all laughing in fits at the Farce.

  And still let us laugh — preach the world as it may —

  Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow;

  Heroics are very grand things in their way,

  But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.

  For instance, what sermon on human affairs

  Could equal the scene that took place t’other day

  ‘Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs —

  The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

  Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied,

  And whose worship not even among Christians declines,

  In our senate thou’st languisht since Sheridan died,

  But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

  Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits,

  And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at!

  Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits,

  Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

  And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave —

  A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read;

  While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave,

  We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.

  Meanwhile it much glads us to find he’s preparing

  To teach other bishops to “seek the right way;”1

  And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing,

  Just such as he gave to Charles James t’other day.

  For our parts, gravity’s good for the soul,

  Such a fancy have we for the side that there’s fun on,

  We’d rather with Sydney southwest take a “stroll,”

  Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

  1 “This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your

  Lordship’s speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and

  N. E. you had turned about,” etc. — SYDNEY SMITH’S Last Letter to the

  Bishop of London.

  THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

  IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.

  What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,

  And, better still, a man of guineas,

  To talk of “patrons,” in these times,

  When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,

  And Arkwright’s twist and Bulwer’s page

  Alike may laugh at patronage!

  No, no — those times are past away,

  When, doomed in upper floors to star it.

  The bard inscribed to lords his lay, —

  Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.

  No more he begs with air dependent.

  His “little bark may sail attendant”

  Under some lordly skipper’s steerage;

  But launched triumphant in the Row,

  Or taken by Murray’s self in tow.

  Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

  Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail

  Is whiskt from England by the gale.

  But bears on board some authors, shipt

  For foreign shores, all well equipt

  With proper book-making machinery,

  To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,

  Of all such lands as they shall see,

  Or not see, as the case may be: —

  It being enjoined on all who go

  To study first Miss Martineau,

  And learn from her the method true,[too.

  To do one’s books — and readers,

  For so this nymph of nous and nerve

  Teaches mankind “How to Observe;”

  And, lest mankind at all should swerve,

  Teaches them also “What to Observe.”

  No, no, my friend — it cant be blinkt —

  The Patron is a race extinct;

  As dead as any Megatherion

  That ever Buckland built a theory on.

  Instead of bartering in this age

  Our praise for pence and patronage,

  We authors now more prosperous elves,

  Have learned to patronize ourselves;

  And since all-potent Puffing’s made

  The life of song, the soul of trade.

  More frugal of our praises grown,

  We puff no merits but our own.

  Unlike those feeble gales of praise

  Which critics blew in former days,

  Our modern puffs are of a kind

  That truly, really raise the wind;

  And since they’ve fairly set in blowing,

  We find them the best trade-winds going.

  ‘Stead of frequenting paths so slippy

  As her old haunts near Aganippe,

  The Muse now taking to the till

  Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill

  (Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,

  As seen from bard’s back attic windows):

  And swallowing there without cessation

  Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,

  Touches the notes for each new theme,

  While still fresh “change comes o’er her dream.”

  What Steam is on the deep — and more —

  Is the vast power of Puff on shore;

  Which jumps to glory’s future tenses

  Before the present even commences;

  And makes “immortal” and “divine” of us

  Before the world
has read one line of us.

  In old times, when the God of Song

  Drove his own two-horse team along,

  Carrying inside a bard or two,

  Bookt for posterity “all thro’;” —

  Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes,

  (Like yours, my friend,) for after-times —

  So slow the pull to Fame’s abode,

  That folks oft slept upon the road; —

  And Homer’s self, sometimes, they say,

  Took to his night-cap on the way.

  Ye Gods! how different is the story

  With our new galloping sons of glory,

  Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,

  Dash to posterity in no time!

  Raise but one general blast of Puff

  To start your author — that’s enough.

  In vain the critics set to watch him

  Try at the starting post to catch him:

  He’s off — the puffers carry it hollow —

  The critics, if they please, may follow.

  Ere they’ve laid down their first positions,

  He’s fairly blown thro’ six editions!

  In vain doth Edinburgh dispense

  Her blue and yellow pestilence

  (That plague so awful in my time

  To young and touchy sons of rhyme) —

  The Quarterly, at three months’ date,

  To catch the Unread One, comes too late;

  And nonsense, littered in a hurry,

  Becomes “immortal,” spite of Murray.

  But bless me! — while I thus keep fooling,

  I hear a voice cry, “Dinner’s cooling.”

  That postman too (who, truth to tell,

  ‘Mong men of letters bears the bell,)

  Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally

  That I must stop —

  Yours sempiternally.

  THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

  BY LORD STANLEY.

  (HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)

  “Evil, be thou my good.”

  — MILTON.

  How various are the inspirations

  Of different men in different nations!

  As genius prompts to good or evil,

  Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.

  Old Socrates, that pink of sages,

  Kept a pet demon on board wages

  To go about with him incog.,

  And sometimes give his wits a jog.

  So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know,

  Keeps fresh relays of imps below,

  To forward from that nameless spot;

  His inspirations, hot and hot.

  But, neat as are old Lyndhurst’s doings —