Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Give CARTWRIGHT his Parliaments, fresh every year;

  But those friends of short Commons would never do here;

  And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question.

  No Digest of Law’s like the laws of digestion!

  By the by, DICK, I fatten — but n’importe for that,

  ’Tis the mode — your Legitimates always get fat.

  There’s the REGENT, there’s LOUIS — and BONEY tried too,

  But, tho’ somewhat imperial in paunch, ’twouldn’t do: —

  He improved indeed much in this point when he wed,

  But he ne’er grew right royally fat in the head.

  DICK, DICK, what a place is this Paris! — but stay —

  As my raptures may bore you, I’ll just sketch a Day,

  As we pass it, myself and some comrades I’ve got,

  All thorough-bred Gnostics, who know what is what.

  After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne,

  That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,

  Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain,

  And the skaters in winter show off on cream-ice;

  Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,

  Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields;

  Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint,

  And the geese are all born with a liver complaint!

  I rise — put on neck-cloth — stiff, tight, as can be —

  For a lad who goes into the world, DICK, like me,

  Should have his neck tied up, you know — there’s no doubt of it —

  Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it.

  With whiskers well oiled, and with boots that “hold up

  “The mirror to nature” — so bright you could sup

  Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws

  On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr’s applause! —

  With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader,

  And stays — devil’s in them — too tight for a feeder,

  I strut to the old Café Hardy, which yet

  Beats the field at a déjeûner a la fourchette.

  There, DICK, what a breakfast! — oh! not like your ghost

  Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast;

  But a side-board, you dog, where one’s eye roves about,

  Like a turk’s in the Haram, and thence singles out

  One’s pâté of larks, just to tune up the throat,

  One’s small limbs of chickens, done en papillote.

  One’s erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,

  Or one’s kidneys — imagine, DICK — done with champagne!

  Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute — or, mayhap,

  Chambertin,2which you know’s the pet tipple of NAP,

  And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,

  Much scruples to taste, but I’m not so partic’lar. —

  Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then DICK’s

  The coffee’s ne’er-failing and glorious appendix,

  (If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on’t,

  I’d swallow e’en Watkins’, for sake of the end on’t,)

  A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips

  Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one’s lips.

  This repast being ended, and paid for — (how odd!

  Till a man’s used to paying, there’s something so queer in’t!) —

  The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,

  And the world enough aired for us Nobs to appear in’t,

  We lounge up the boulevards, where — oh! DICK, the phizzes,

  The turn-outs, we meet — what a nation of quizzes!

  Here toddles along some old figure of fun,

  With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.;

  A laced hat, worsted stockings, and — noble old soul!

  A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;

  Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads,

  Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds.

  Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye,

  (Rather eatable things these grisettes, by the by);

  And there an old demoiselle, almost as fond,

  In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.

  There goes a French Dandy — ah, DICK! unlike some ones

  We’ve seen about WHITE’S — the Mounseers are but rum ones;

  Such hats! — fit for monkies — I’d back Mrs. DRAPER

  To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper:

  And coats — how I wish, if it wouldn’t distress ’em,

  They’d club for old BRUMMEL, from Calais, to dress ’em!

  The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,

  That you’d swear ’twas the plan of this head-lopping nation,

  To leave there behind them a snug little place

  For the head to drop into, on decapitation.

  In short, what with mountebanks, counts and friseurs,

  Some mummers by trade and the rest amateurs —

  What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,

  Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats,

  And shoeblacks, reclining by statues in niches,

  There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

  From the Boulevards — but hearken! — yes — as I’m a sinner,

  The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner:

  So no more at present — short time for adorning —

  My Day must be finisht some other fine morning.

  Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS’S3 larder, my boy!

  And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy

  Were to write “Come and kiss me, dear BOB!” I’d not budge —

  Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is

  R. FUDGE.

  1 The Bill of Fare. — Véry, a well-known Restaurateur.

  2 The favorite wine of Napoleon.

  3 A celebrated restaurateur.

  LETTER IV.

  FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ——

  “Return!” — no, never, while the withering hand

  Of bigot power is on that hapless land;

  While, for the faith my fathers held to God,

  Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,

  I am proscribed, and — like the spot left bare

  In Israel’s halls, to tell the proud and fair

  Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there1 —

  On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace

  The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!

  No! — let them stay, who in their country’s pangs

  See naught but food for factions and harangues;

  Who yearly kneel before their masters’ doors

  And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:

  Still let your . . . .2

  . . . . .

  Still hope and suffer, all who can! — but I,

  Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.

  But whither? — every where the scourge pursues —

  Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,

  In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,

  Countless reflections of the Oppressor’s face.

  Every where gallant hearts and spirits true,

  Are served up victims to the vile and few;

  While England, every where — the general foe

  Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe’er they glow —

  Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.

  Oh, England! could such poor revenge atone

  For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest one;

  Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate

  The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,

  To hear his curses on such barbarous sway

  Echoed, where’er he
bends his cheerless way; —

  Could this content him, every lip he meets

  Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;

  Were this his luxury, never is thy name

  Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame;

  Hears maledictions ring from every side

  Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,

  Which vaunts its own and scorns all rights beside;

  That low and desperate envy which to blast

  A neighbor’s blessings risks the few thou hast; —

  That monster, Self, too gross to be concealed,

  Which ever lurks behind thy proffered shield; —

  That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,

  Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,

  Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gained,

  Back to his masters, ready gagged and chained!

  Worthy associate of that band of Kings,

  That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings

  O’er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,

  And fan her into dreams of promist good,

  Of hope, of freedom — but to drain her blood!

  If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss

  That Vengeance loves, there’s yet more sweet than this,

  That ’twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,

  Made thee the fallen and tarnisht thing thou art;

  That, as the centaur gave the infected vest

  In which he died, to rack his conqueror’s breast,

  We sent thee CASTLEREAGH: — as heaps of dead

  Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,

  So hath our land breathed out, thy fame to dim,

  Thy strength to waste and rot thee soul and limb,

  Her worst infections all condensed in him!

  * * * * *

  When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when

  Will that redeeming day shine out on men,

  That shall behold them rise, erect and free

  As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!

  When Reason shall no longer blindly bow

  To the vile pagod things, that o’er her brow,

  Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;

  Nor Conquest dare to desolate God’s earth;

  Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO’S mirth,

  Strike her lewd harp amidst a people’s groans; —

  But, built on love, the world’s exalted thrones

  Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given —

  Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!

  When will this be? — or, oh! is it, in truth,

  But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,

  In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,

  ‘Twixt sleep and waking, see such dazzling things!

  And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,

  Be all resigned? — and are they only right,

  Who say this world of thinking souls was made

  To be by Kings partitioned, truckt and weighed

  In scales that, ever since the world begun,

  Have counted millions but as dust to one?

  Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn

  The rights, the freedom to which man was born?

  Who . . . . .

  . . . . .

  Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,

  Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;

  Worship each would-be god, that o’er them moves,

  And take the thundering of his brass for JOVE’S!

  If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,

  Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks.

  Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,

  Of living Truth that now must stagnate there! —

  Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,

  Instead of Greece and her immortal fight

  For Liberty which once awaked my strings,

  Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,

  The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,

  Who, bolder’ even than He of Sparta’s land,

  Against whole millions, panting to be free,

  Would guard the pass of right line tyranny.

  Instead of him, the Athenian bard whose blade

  Had stood the onset which his pen portrayed,

  Welcome . . . .

  . . . . .

  And, stead of ARISTIDES — woe the day

  Such names should mingle! — welcome Castlereagh!

  Here break we off, at this unhallowed name.3

  Like priests of old, when words ill-omened came.

  My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell.

  Thoughts that . . . .

  . . . . .

  Thoughts that — could patience hold— ‘twere wiser far

  To leave still hid and burning where they are.

  1 “They used to leave a square yard of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore- mentioned verse of the Psalmist (‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,’ etc.) or the words— ‘The memory of the desolation.’” — Leo of Modena.

  2 I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor’s letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose.

  3 The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names; — he held that every man with three names was a Jacobin.

  LETTER V.

  FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY —— .

  What a time since I wrote! — I’m a sad, naughty girl —

  For, tho’ like a tee-totum, I’m all in a twirl; —

  Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum

  Between all its twirls gives a letter to note ’em.

  But, Lord, such a place! and then, DOLLY, my dresses,

  My gowns, so divine! — there’s no language expresses,

  Except just the two words “superbe, magnifique,”

  The trimmings of that which I had home last week!

  It is called — I forget — à la — something which sounded

  Like alicampane — but in truth I’m confounded

  And bothered, my dear, ‘twixt that troublesome boy’s

  (BOB’S) cookery language, and Madame LE ROI’S:

  What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,

  Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,

  One’s hair and one’s cutlets both en papillote,

  And a thousand more things I shall ne’er have by rote,

  I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,

  Between beef à la Psyche and curls à la braise. —

  But in short, dear, I’m trickt out quite à la Francaise,

  With my bonnet — so beautiful! — high up and poking,

  Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

  Where shall I begin with the endless delights

  Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys and sights —

  This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transacting

  But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

  Imprimis, the Opera — mercy, my ears!

  Brother BOBBY’S remark, t’other night, was a true one: —

  “This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,

  For I’m curst if each note of it doesnt run thro’ one!”

  Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out

  ’Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)

  That this passion for roaring has come in of late,

  Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State. —

  What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!

  What a chorus, dear DOLLY, would soon be let loose of it,

  If, when of age, every man in the realm

  Had a voice like old LAIS,1 and chose to m
ake use of it!

  No — never was known in this riotous sphere

  Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.

  So bad too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,

  Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic

  For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,

  And composing a fine rumbling bass to a cholic!

  But, the dancing — ah parlez-moi, DOLLY, de ca —

  There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.

  Such beauty — such grace — oh ye sylphs of romance!

  Fly, fly to TITANIA, and ask her if she has

  One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance

  Like divine BIGOTTINI and sweet FANNY BIAS!

  FANNY BIAS in FLORA — dear creature! — you’d swear,

  When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,

  That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,

  And she only par complaisance touches the ground.

  And when BIGOTTINI in PSYCHE dishevels

  Her black flowing hair, and by daemons is driven,

  Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,

  That hold her and hug her, and keep her from heaven?

  Then, the music — so softly its cadences die,

  So divinely — oh, DOLLY! between you and I,

  It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nigh

  To make love to me then — you’ve a soul, and can judge

  What a crisis ’twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE!

  The next place (which BOBBY has near lost his heart in)

  They call it the Play-house — I think — of St. Martin;2

  Quite charming — and very religious — what folly

  To say that the French are not pious, dear DOLLY,

  Where here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,

  The Testament turned into melodrames nightly;3

  And doubtless so fond they’re of scriptural facts,

  They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.

  Here DANIEL, in pantomime,4 bids bold defiance

  To NEBUCHADNEZZAR and all his stuft lions,

  While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,

  In very thin clothing, and but little of it; —

  Here BEGRAND,5 who shines in this scriptural path,

  As the lovely SUSANNA, without even a relic

  Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath

  In a manner that, BOB says, is quite Eve-angelic!

  But in short, dear, ’twould take me a month to recite

  All the exquisite places we’re at, day and night;

  And, besides, ere I finish, I think you’ll be glad

  Just to hear one delightful adventure I’ve had.