by Thomas Moore
Beyond even Hecate’s “hell-broth” brewings —
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I’d show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood’s tricks
With age’s sourest politics;
The urchin’s freaks, the veteran’s gall,
Both duly mixt, and matchless all;
A compound naught in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene’er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee —
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I’m well aware,
So mischief’s done, you care not where,
I own, ‘twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new, brisk method of tormenting —
A way they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon’t
The stamp of Stanley’s brazen front.
Ireland, we’re told, means the land of Ire;
And why she’s so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley.
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
Yes — sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, “sweltered venom” got
By stirring Ireland’s “charmed pot;”
And thanks to practice on that land
I stir it with a master-hand.
Again thou’lt see, when forth have gone
The War-Church-cry, “On, Stanley, on!”
How Caravats and Shanavests
Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (step-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o’er Erin’s rich domain
Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition which to climb at,
The post of Captain, or of Primate.
And so, long life to Church and Co. —
Hurrah for mischief! — here we go.
EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.
Dear Lyndhurst, — you’ll pardon my making thus free, —
But form is all fudge ‘twixt such “comrogues” as we,
Who, whate’er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private —
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we’ve taught her
To love more than meat, drink, or clothing — hot water.
All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Played so well into each other’s hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture,
Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture.
Not Birmingham’s self — to her shame be it spoken —
E’er made things more neatly contrived to be broken;
And hence, I confess, in this island religious,
The breakage of laws — and of heads is prodigious.
And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I, —
Tho’, of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by;
As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport,
Some rector — a cool hand at pistols and port,
Who “keeps dry” his powder, but never himself —
One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf,
Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges,
Shooting his “dearly beloved,” like partridges;
Except when some hero of this sort turned out,
Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs1 about —
A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery,
Than e’er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery;
So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow,
To have bit off so rich a receipt for a row; —
Except for such rigs turning up, now and then,
I was actually growing the dullest of men;
And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase,
Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace.
Like you, Reformation in Church and in State
Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate.
If once these curst Ministers do as they like,
All’s o’er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike,
And one may be hung up on t’other, henceforth,
Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors were worth.
But we must not despair — even already Hope sees
You’re about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze
Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you,
Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro’,
And care not one farthing, as all the world knows,
So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows.
Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare
My own small resources with thine to compare:
Not even Jerry Diddler, in “raising the wind,” durst
Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.
But, hark, there’s a shot! — some parsonic practitioner?
No — merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner;
The Courts having now, with true law erudition,
Put even Rebellion itself “in commission.”
As seldom, in this way, I’m any man’s debtor,
I’ll just pay my shot and then fold up this letter.
In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks!
Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!
Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!
1 Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion. — Chronicle.
CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.
LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.1
Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more,
Deep in Tory designs, as I’ve oft been before:
For, bless them! if ’twasn’t for this wrong-headed crew,
You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do;
So ready they’re always, when dull we are growing,
To set our old concert of discord a-going,
While Lyndhurst’s the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,
To play in such concert the true double-base.
I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning
To tire of his course of political sinning,
And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,
Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last.
But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides;
And, by using two faces thro’ life, all allow,
Has acquired face sufficient for any-thing now.
In short, he’s all right; and, if mankind’s old foe,
My “Lord H
arry” himself — who’s the leader, we know,
Of another red-hot Opposition below —
If that “Lord,” in his well-known discernment, but spares
Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland’s affairs,
We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,
That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.
Even already — long life to such Bigwigs, say I,
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die —
He has served our right riotous cause by a speech
Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;
As it shows off both his and my merits alike,
Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike;
Mixes up, with a skill which one cant but admire,
The lawyer’s cool craft with the incendiary’s fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery’s banner!
Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Thro’ the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered
By all Tipperary’s wild echoes be muttered.
Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood,
But “You’re aliens in language, in creed and in blood;”
While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,
Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, “We are!”
And, tho’ false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it,
Still the echoes may quote Law authority for it,
And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion
So he, in the end, touches cash “for the opinion.”
But I’ve no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,
Being busy in helping these Lords thro’ their row.
They’re bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin,
They’ll have plenty of practice to break them well in.
1 The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.
POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.
In the dirge we sung o’er him no censure was heard,
Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,
And wept for the husband, the father and friend.
Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,
And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,
And tho’ wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.
Even now if one harsher emotion intrude,
’Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was — and, content to be good,
Had ne’er for our ruin aspired to be great.
So, left thro’ their own little orbit to move,
His years might have rolled inoffensive away;
His children might still have been blest with his love,
And England would ne’er have been curst with his sway.
TO THE EDITOR OF “THE MORNING CHRONICLE.”
Sir, — In order to explain the following Fragment, it is
necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the
Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, “FUM,
The Chinese Bird of Royalty,” is a principal ornament.
I am, Sir, yours, etc.
MUM.
FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.
One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM,
Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM,
In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)
Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit. —
Near akin are these Birds, tho’ they differ in nation
(The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation);
Both, full-crawed Legitimates — both, birds of prey,
Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way
‘Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh.
While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea,
Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM. — are sacred to thee
So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on
The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,
The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome
Where so like what he left, “Gad,” says FUM, “I’m at home,” —
And when, turning, he saw Bishop L — GE, “Zooks, it is.”
Quoth the Bird, “Yes — I know him — a Bonze, by his phiz-
“And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low
“Can be none but our round-about god-head, fat Fo!”
It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig
Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,1
Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o’er his head,
And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed,
Which so dimmed the poor Dandy’s idolatrous eye,
That, while FUM cried “Oh Fo!” all the court cried “Oh fie!”
But a truce to digression; — these Birds of a feather
Thus talkt, t’other night, on State matters together;
(The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for’t,
His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,)
“I say, HUM,” says FUM — FUM, of course, spoke Chinese,
But, bless you! that’s nothing — at Brighton one sees
Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease —
“I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now?
“Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney-or how?”
(The Bird had just taken a flash-man’s degree
Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L — E,)
“As for us in Pekin” — here, a devil of a din
From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin,
Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the Confucius of Prose),
Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe’s repose
To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol’s nose.
(Nota bene — his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come,
In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM,
CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug — LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,)
The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH.
Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away!
Thro’ the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby,
Ne’er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen’s lobby.
1 In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his Royal Highness.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.
principibus placuisse viris!
— HORAT.
Yes, grief will have way — but the fast falling tear
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those
Who could bask in that Spirit’s meridian career.
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close: —
Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed
By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave; —
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.
Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died — friendless and lorn!
How proud they can press to the funeral array
Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow: —
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,
Whose palls shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!
And Thou too whose life, a sick epicure’s dream,
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had past,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam
Which his friendship and wit o’er thy nothingness cast: —
No! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee
With millions to heap upon Foppery’s shrine; —
No! not for the riches of all who despise thee,
Tho’ this would make Europe’s whole opulence mine; —
Would I suffer what — even in the heart that thou hast —
All mean as it is — must have consciously burned.
When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,
And which found all his wants at an end, was returned!1
“Was this then the fate,” — future ages will say,
When some names shall live but in history’s curse;
When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day
Be forgotten as fools or remembered as worse; —
“Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
“The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall,
“The orator, — dramatist, — minstrel, — who ran
“Thro’ each mode of the lyre and was master of all; —
“Whose mind was an essence compounded with art
“From the finest and best of all other men’s powers;-
“Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,
“And could call up its sunshine or bring down its showers; —
“Whose humor, as gay as the firefly’s light,
“Played round every subject and shone as it played; —
“Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright,
“Ne’er carried a heart-stain away on its blade; —
“Whose eloquence — brightening whatever it tried,
“Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, —
“Was as rapid, as deep and as brilliant a tide,
“As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!”
Yes — such was the man and so wretched his fate; —
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn’s dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect ‘twill return to refresh them at eve.
In the woods of the North there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;2
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains and then leave thee to die!
1 The sum was two hundred pounds — offered when Sheridan could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.
