by Thomas Moore
Who bade this splendid day-dream pass,
And named each gliding apparition.
’Twas like a torch-race — such as they
Of Greece performed, in ages gone,
When the fleet youths, in long array,
Past the bright torch triumphant on.
I saw the expectant nations stand,
To catch the coming flame in turn; —
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
The clear tho’ struggling glory burn.
And oh! their joy, as it came near,
’Twas in itself a joy to see; —
While Fancy whispered in my ear.
“That torch they pass is Liberty!”
And each, as she received the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.
From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnisht with the fire already,
COLUMBIA caught the boon divine,
And lit a flame, like ALBION’S, steady.
The splendid gift then GALLIA took,
And, like a wild Bacchante, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,
As she would set the world a-blazing!
Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high
Her altar blazed into the air,
That ALBION, to that fire too nigh,
Shrunk back and shuddered at its glare!
Next, SPAIN, so new was light to her,
Leapt at the torch — but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,
’Twas quenched — and all again was dark.
Yet, no — not quenched — a treasure worth
So much to mortals rarely dies:
Again her living light lookt forth,
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.
Who next received the flame? alas!
Unworthy NAPLES — shame of shames,
That ever thro’ such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!
Scarce had her fingers touched the torch.
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting even to feel the scorch,
She dropt it to the earth — and fled.
And fallen it might have long remained;
But GREECE, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, tho’ prostrate, stained,
And waved it round her beauteous brow.
And Fancy bade me mark where, o’er
Her altar, as its flame ascended,
Fair, laurelled spirits seemed to soar,
Who thus in song their voices blended: —
“Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame,
“Divinest gift of Gods to men!
“From GREECE thy earliest splendor came,
“To GREECE thy ray returns again.
“Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round,
“When dimmed, revive, when lost, return,
“Till not a shrine thro’ earth be found,
“On which thy glories shall not burn.”
FABLE IV. THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.
PROEM.
Of all that, to the sage’s survey,
This world presents of topsy-turvy,
There’s naught so much disturbs one’s patience,
As little minds in lofty stations.
’Tis like that sort of painful wonder.
Which slender columns, laboring under
Enormous arches, give beholders; —
Or those poor Caryatides,
Condemned to smile and stand at ease,
With a whole house upon their shoulders.
If as in some few royal cases,
Small minds are born into such places —
If they are there by Right Divine
Or any such sufficient reason,
Why — Heaven forbid we should repine! —
To wish it otherwise were treason;
Nay, even to see it in a vision,
Would be what lawyers call misprision.
SIR ROBERT FILMER saith — and he,
Of course, knew all about the matter —
“Both men and beasts love Monarchy;”
Which proves how rational the latter.
SIDNEY, we know, or wrong or right.
Entirely differed from the Knight:
Nay, hints a King may lose his head.
By slipping awkwardly his bridle: —
But this is treasonous, ill-bred,
And (now-a-days, when Kings are led
In patent snaffles) downright idle.
No, no — it isnt right-line Kings,
(Those sovereign lords in leading strings
Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,)
That move my wrath— ’tis your pretenders,
Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth,
Who — not, like t’others, bores by birth,
Establisht gratiâ Dei blockheads,
Born with three kingdoms in their pockets —
Yet, with a brass that nothing stops,
Push up into the loftiest stations,
And, tho’ too dull to manage shops,
Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!
This class it is, that moves my gall,
And stirs up bile, and spleen and all.
While other senseless things appear
To know the limits of their sphere —
While not a cow on earth romances
So much as to conceit she dances —
While the most jumping frog we know of,
Would scarce at Astley’s hope to show off —
Your * * *s, your * * *s dare,
Untrained as are their minds, to set them
To any business, any where,
At any time that fools will let them.
But leave we here these upstart things —
My business is just now with Kings;
To whom and to their right-line glory,
I dedicate the following story.
FABLE
The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies;
And even when they most condescended to teach,
They packt up their meaning, as they did their mummies,
In so many wrappers, ’twas out of one’s reach.
They were also, good people, much given to Kings —
Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery;
But blue-bottle flies were their best beloved things —
As will partly appear in this very short history.
A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say,
To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,)
Stept into a temple at Memphis one day,
To have a short peep at their mystical farces.
He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar,
Made much of, and worshipt, as something divine;
While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter,
Before it lay stabbed at the foot of the shrine.
Surprised at such doings, he whispered his teacher —
“If ’tisn’t impertinent, may I ask why
“Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature,
“Be thus offered up to a bluebottle Fly?”
“No wonder” — said t’other— “you stare at the sight,
“But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it —
“That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right,
“And that Bullock, the People that’s sacrificed to it.”
FABLE V. CHURCH AND STATE.
PROEM
“The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men’s interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them.” — SOAME JENYNS
Thus did SOAME JENYNS — tho’ a Tory,
A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;
Feel how Religion’s simple glory
Is stained by State associations.
When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles,
Appealed to the benign Divinity;
Then cut them up in protocols,
Made fractions of their very souls —
All in the name of the blest Trinity;
Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER,
That mighty Northern salamander,1
Whose icy touch, felt all about,
Puts every fire of Freedom out —
When he, too, winds up his Ukases
With God and the Panagia’s praises —
When he, of royal Saints the type,
In holy water dips the sponge,
With which, at one imperial wipe,
He would all human rights expunge;
When LOUIS (whom as King, and eater,
Some name Dix-huit, and some Deshuitres.)
Calls down “St. Louis’s God” to witness
The right, humanity, and fitness
Of sending eighty thousand Solons,
Sages with muskets and laced coats,
To cram instruction, nolens volens,
Down the poor struggling Spaniards’ throats —
I cant help thinking, (tho’ to Kings
I must, of course, like other men, bow,)
That when a Christian monarch brings
Religion’s name to gloss these things —
Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow!2
Or — not so far for facts to roam,
Having a few much nearer home-
When we see Churchmen, who, if askt,
“Must Ireland’s slaves be tithed, and taskt,
“And driven, like Negroes or Croats,
“That you may roll in wealth and bliss?”
Look from beneath their shovel hats
With all due pomp and answer “Yes!”
But then, if questioned, “Shall the brand
“Intolerance flings throughout that land, —
“Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow
‘Betwixt her palaces and hovels,
“Be ever quenched?” — from the same shovels
Look grandly forth and answer “No.” —
Alas, alas! have these a claim
To merciful Religion’s name?
If more you seek, go see a bevy
Of bowing parsons at a levee —
(Choosing your time, when straw’s before
Some apoplectic bishop’s door,)
Then if thou canst with life escape
That rush of lawn, that press of crape,
Just watch their reverences and graces,
As on each smirking suitor frisks,
And say, if those round shining faces
To heaven or earth most turn their disks?
This, this it is — Religion, made,
Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade —
This most ill-matched, unholy Co.,
From whence the ills we witness flow;
The war of many creeds with one —
The extremes of too much faith and none —
Till, betwixt ancient trash and new,
‘Twixt Cant and Blasphemy — the two
Rank ills with which this age is curst —
We can no more tell which is worst,
Than erst could Egypt, when so rich
In various plagues, determine which
She thought most pestilent and vile,
Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle,
Croaking their native mud-notes loud,
Or her fat locusts, like a cloud
Of pluralists, obesely lowering,
At once benighting and devouring! —
This — this it is — and here I pray
Those sapient wits of the Reviews.
Who make us poor, dull authors say,
Not what we mean, but what they choose;
Who to our most abundant shares
Of nonsense add still more of theirs,
And are to poets just such evils
As caterpillars find those flies,3
Which, not content to sting like devils,
Lay eggs upon their backs like wise —
To guard against such foul deposits
Of other’s meaning in my rhymes,
(A thing more needful here because it’s
A subject, ticklish in these times) —
I, here, to all such wits make known,
Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory,
’Tis this Religion — this alone —
I aim at in the following story: —
FABLE.
When Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touched by Time, he had become —
If ’tisn’t civil to say old,
At least, a ci-devant jeune homme;
One evening, on some wild pursuit
Driving along, he chanced to see
Religion, passing by on foot,
And took him in his vis-à-vis.
This said Religion was a Friar,
The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne’er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.
“I say” — quoth Royalty, who rather
Enjoyed a masquerading joke —
“I say, suppose, my good old father,
“You lend me for a while your cloak.”
The Friar consented — little knew
What tricks the youth had in his head;
Besides, was rather tempted too
By a laced coat he got instead.
Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,
Scampering like mad about the town;
Broke windows, shivered lamps to smash,
And knockt whole scores of watchmen down.
While naught could they, whose heads were broke,
Learn of the “why” or the “wherefore,”
Except that ’twas Religion’s cloak
The gentleman, who crackt them, wore,
Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned
By the laced coat, grew frisky too;
Lookt big — his former habits spurned —
And stormed about, as great men do:
Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses —
Said “Damn you” often, or as bad —
Laid claim to other people’s purses —
In short, grew either knaves or mad.
As work like this was unbefitting,
And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense, then sitting,
Summoned the culprits both before it.
Where, after hours in wrangling spent
(As Courts must wrangle to decide well).
Religion to St. Luke’s was sent,
And Royalty packt off to Bridewell.
With this proviso — should they be
Restored, in due time, to their senses,
They both must give security,
In future, against such offences —
Religion ne’er to lend his cloak,
Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke, —
But not to crack poor people’s heads too.
1 The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by its natural coldness and moisture.
2 A well-known publisher of irreligious books.
3 “The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings into its body — at every dart they deposit an egg” — GOLDSMITH.
FABLE VI. THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.
PROEM.
Novella, a young Bolognese,
The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,1
Who had with all the subtleties
Of old and modern jurists stockt her,
Was so exceeding fair, ’tis said,
And over hearts held such d
ominion,
That when her father, sick in bed,
Or busy, sent her, in his stead,
To lecture on the Code Justinian,
She had a curtain drawn before her,
Lest, if her charms were seen, the students
Should let their young eyes wander o’er her,
And quite forget their jurisprudence.
Just so it is with Truth, when seen,
Too dazzling far,— ’tis from behind
A light, thin allegoric screen,
She thus can safest leach mankind.
FABLE.
In Thibet once there reigned, we’re told,
A little Lama, one year old —
Raised to the throne, that realm to bless,
Just when his little Holiness
Had cut — as near as can be reckoned —
Some say his first tooth, some his second.
Chronologers and Nurses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary.
We only know the important truth,
His Majesty had cut a tooth.
And much his subjects were enchanted, —
As well all Lamas’ subjects may be,
And would have given their heads, if wanted,
To make tee-totums for the baby.
Throned as he was by Right Divine —
(What Lawyers call Jure Divino,
Meaning a right to yours and mine
And everybody’s goods and rhino.)
Of course, his faithful subjects’ purses
Were ready with their aids and succors;
Nothing was seen but pensioned Nurses;
And the land groaned with bibs and tuckers.
Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet,
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,
Ye Gods! what room for long debates
Upon the Nursery Estimates!
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes
And pinafores, in nightly battles!
What calls for papers to expose
The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But no — if Thibet had M.P.s,
They were far better bred than these;
Nor gave the slightest opposition,
During the Monarch’s whole dentition.
But short this calm; — for, just when he,
Had reached the alarming age of three,
When Royal natures and no doubt
Those of all noble beasts break out —
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Showed symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe’er came nigh;
Tweakt the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turned all the Judges’ wigs awry,
And trod on the old Generals’ toes;
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,
Rode cock-horse on the City maces,
