Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Recollect, dear, (in Hebrews, xiii. 4,) St. Paul

  Hath himself declared, “marriage is honorable in all.”

  EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

  Monday.

  Tried a new chälé gown on — pretty.

  No one to see me in it — pity!

  Flew in a passion with Fritz, my maid; —

  The Lord forgive me! — she lookt dismayed;

  But got her to sing the 100th Psalm,

  While she curled my hair, which made me calm.

  Nothing so soothes a Christian heart

  As sacred music — heavenly art!

  Tuesday

  At two a visit from Mr. Magan —

  A remarkably handsome, nice young man;

  And, all Hibernian tho’ he be,

  As civilized, strange to say, as we!

  I own this young man’s spiritual state

  Hath much engrossed my thoughts of late;

  And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone,

  To have some talk with him thereupon.

  At present I naught can do or say,

  But that troublesome child is in the way;

  Nor is there, I think, a doubt that he

  Would also her absence much prefer,

  As oft, while listening intent to me,

  He’s forced, from politeness, to look at her.

  Heigho! — what a blessing should Mr. Magan

  Turn out, after all, a “renewed” young man;

  And to me should fall the task, on earth,

  To assist at the dear youth’s second birth.

  Blest thought! and ah! more blest the tie,

  Were it Heaven’s high will, that he and I —

  But I blush to write the nuptial word —

  Should wed, as St. Paul says, “in the Lord”;

  Not this world’s wedlock — gross, gallant,

  But pure — as when Amram married his aunt.

  Our ages differ — but who would count

  One’s natural sinful life’s amount,

  Or look in the Register’s vulgar page

  For a regular twice-born Christian’s age,

  Who, blessed privilege! only then

  Begins to live when he’s born again?

  And, counting in this way — let me see —

  I myself but five years old shall be.

  And dear Magan, when the event takes place,

  An actual new-born child of grace —

  Should Heaven in mercy so dispose —

  A six-foot baby, in swaddling clothes.

  Wednesday.

  Finding myself, by some good fate,

  With Mr. Magan left téte-à-téte,

  Had just begun — having stirred the fire,

  And drawn my chair near his — to inquire,

  What his notions were of Original Sin,

  When that naughty Fanny again bounced in;

  And all the sweet things I had got to say

  Of the Flesh and the Devil were whiskt away!

  Much grieved to observe that Mr. Magan

  Is actually pleased and, amused with Fan!

  What charms any sensible man can see

  In a child so foolishly young as she —

  But just eighteen, come next Mayday,

  With eyes, like herself, full of naught but play —

  Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.

  1 “Morning Manna, or British Verse-book, neatly done up for the pocket,” and chiefly intended to assist the members of the British Verse Association, whose design is, we are told, “to induce the inhabitants of Great Britain and Ireland to commit one and the same verse of Scripture to memory every morning. Already, it is known, several thousand persons in Scotland, besides tens of thousands in America and Africa, are every morning learning the same verse.”

  2 According to the late Mr. Irving, there is even a peculiar form of theology got up expressly for the money-market, “I know how far wide,” he says, “of the mark my views of Christ’s work in the flesh will be viewed by those who are working with the stock-jobbing theology of the religious world.” “Let these preachers.” he adds, “(for I will not call them theologians), cry up, brother like, their article,” — Morning Watch.” — No. iii, 442. 443.

  LETTER III.

  FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY —— .

  STANZAS ENCLOSED.

  TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY? — WHAT? — HOW?

  Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky

  Thus wed their charms, in bridal light arrayed,

  Why in this bright hour, walkst thou ever nigh;

  Blackening my footsteps, with thy length of shade —

  Dark comrade, WHY?

  Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,

  Glidest beside me o’er each sunny spot,

  Saddening them as thou goest — say, what means

  So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot —

  Grim goblin, WHAT?

  Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,

  Thou bendest, too — then risest when I rise; —

  Say, mute, mysterious Thing! how is’t that thou

  Thus comest between me and those blessed skies —

  Dim shadow, HOW?

  (ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.)

  Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge

  Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,

  Oh Why? What? How? — a Voice, that one might judge

  To be some Irish echo’s, faint replied,

  Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!

  You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;

  And, with it, that odious “additional stanza,

  Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,

  And which, you’ll at once see, is Mr. Magan’s; — a

  Most cruel and dark-designed extravaganza,

  And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are

  To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.

  Just so ’twas with Byron’s young eagle-eyed strain,

  Just so did they taunt him; — but vain, critics, vain

  All your efforts to saddle Wit’s fire with a chain!

  To blot out the splendor of Fancy’s young stream,

  Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!!

  Thou perceivest, dear, that, even while these lines I indite,

  Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,

  And I’m all over poet, in Criticism’s spite!

  That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards

  Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards —

  That she should make light of my works I cant blame;

  But that nice, handsome, odious Magan — what a shame!

  Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him,

  I’m really afraid — after all, I — must hate him,

  He is so provoking — naught’s safe from his tongue;

  He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.

  Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou

  Once shone as contributor, Lord! how he’d quiz you!

  He laughs at all Monthlies — I’ve actually seen

  A sneer on his brow at The Court Magazine! —

  While of Weeklies, poor things, there’s but one he peruses,

  And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.

  But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,

  One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;

  And tho’ tried by the fire, my young genius shall burn as

  Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!

  (I suspect the word “crucified” must be made “crucible,”

  Before this fine image of mine is producible.)

  And now, dear — to tell you a secret which, pray

  Only trust to such friends as with safety you may —

  You know and indeed the whole country suspects

&nb
sp; (Tho’ the Editor often my best things rejects),

  That the verses signed so,[symbol: hand], which you now and then see

  In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me.

  But ’tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes

  The vile country Press in one’s prosody makes.

  For you know, dear — I may, without vanity, hint —

  Tho’ an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print;

  And you cant think what havoc these demons sometimes

  Choose to make of one’s sense, and what’s worse, of one’s rhymes.

  But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring,

  Which I meant to have made a most beautiful thing,

  Where I talkt of the “dewdrops from freshly-blown roses,”

  The nasty things made it “from freshly-blown noses!”

  And once when to please my cross Aunt, I had tried

  To commemorate some saint of her cligue, who’d just died,

  Having said he “had taken up in heaven his position,”

  They made it, he’d “taken up to heaven his physician!”

  This is very disheartening; — but brighter days shine,

  I rejoice, love, to say both for me and the Nine;

  For what do you think? — so delightful! next year,

  Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare —

  I’m to write in “The Keepsake” — yes, Kitty, my dear.

  To write in “The Keepsake,” as sure as you’re there!!

  T’ other night, at a Ball, ’twas my fortunate chance

  With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,

  Who, ’twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught.

  Was the author of something — one couldnt tell what;

  But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt

  It was something that Colburn had lately brought out.

  We conversed of belles-lettres thro’ all the quadrille, —

  Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;

  Talkt of Intellect’s march — whether right ’twas or wrong —

  And then settled the point in a bold en avant.

  In the course of this talk ’twas that, having just hinted

  That I too had Poems which — longed to be printed,

  He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,

  I was actually born in “The Keepsake” to write.

  “In the Annals of England let some,” he said, “shine,

  “But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!

  “Even now future ‘Keepsakes’ seem brightly to rise,

  “Thro’ the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes, —

  “All lettered and prest, and of large-paper size!”

  How unlike that Magan, who my genius would smother,

  And how we true geniuses find out each other!

  This and much more he said with that fine frenzied glance

  One so rarely now sees, as we slid thro’ the dance;

  Till between us ’twas finally fixt that, next year,

  In this exquisite task I my pen should engage;

  And, at parting, he stoopt down and lispt in my ear

  These mystical words, which I could but just hear,

  “Terms for rhyme — if it’s prime — ten and sixpence per page.”

  Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right,

  What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains;

  If for nothing to write is itself a delight,

  Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one’s strains!

  Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy profound,

  Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;

  And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I’ve found

  That he’s quite a new species of literary man;

  One, whose task is — to what will not fashion accustom us? —

  To edit live authors, as if they were posthumous.

  For instance — the plan, to be sure, is the oddest! —

  If any young he or she author feels modest

  In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher

  Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher;

  Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,

  Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,

  And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.

  My Aunt says — tho’ scarce on such points one can credit her —

  He was Lady Jane Thingumbob’s last novel’s editor.

  ’Tis certain the fashion’s but newly invented;

  And quick as the change of all things and all names is,

  Who knows but as authors like girls are presented,

  We girls may be edited soon at St. James’s?

  I must now close my letter — there’s Aunt, in full screech,

  Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.

  God forgive me, I’m not much inclined, I must say,

  To go and sit still to be preached at to-day.

  And besides— ‘twill be all against dancing, no doubt,

  Which my poor Aunt abhors with such hatred devout,

  That so far from presenting young nymphs with a head,

  For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,

  She’d wish their own heads in the platter instead.

  There again — coming, Ma’am! — I’ll write more, if I can,

  Before the post goes,

  Your affectionate Fan.

  Four o’clock.

  Such a sermon! — tho’ not about dancing, my dear;

  ’Twas only on the end of the world being near.

  Eighteen Hundred and Forty’s the year that some state

  As the time for that accident — some Forty Eight1

  And I own, of the two, I’d prefer much the latter,

  As then I shall be an old maid, and ‘twon’t matter.

  Once more, love, good-by — I’ve to make a new cap;

  But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishap

  Of the end of the world that I must take a nap.

  1 With regard to the exact time of this event, there appears to be a difference only of about two or three years among the respective calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit. et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846 or 1847.

  LETTER IV.

  FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD —— .

  He comes from Erin’s speechful shore

  Like fervid kettle, bubbling o’er

  With hot effusions — hot and weak;

  Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,

  He comes, of Erin’s martyrdoms

  To Britain’s well-fed Church to speak.

  Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,1

  Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!

  Journals reserved for realms of bliss,

  Being much too good to sell in this,

  Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,

  Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;

  And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,

  Blow all your little penny trumpets.

  He comes, the reverend man, to tell

  To all who still the Church’s part take,

  Tales of parsonic woe, that well

  Might make even grim Dissenter’s heart ache: —

  Of ten whole bishops snatched away

  For ever from the light of day;

  (With God knows, too, how many more,

  For whom that doom is yet in store) —

  Of Rectors cruelly compelled

  From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home,

  Because the tithes, by Pat withheld,

  Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come;

  Nor will the flocks consent to pay

  Their parsons thus to stay away; —

  Tho’ with such parsons, one may doubt

  If ’tisn’t money well laid out; —


  Of all, in short, and each degree

  Of that once happy Hierarchy,

  Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly;

  But now, alas! is doomed to see

  Its surplus brought to nonplus presently!

  Such are the themes this man of pathos,

  Priest of prose and lord of bathos,

  Will preach and preach t’ye, till you’re dull again;

  Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim,

  Shout to the stars his tuneful name,

  Which Murtagh was, ere known to fame,

  But now is Mortimer O’Mulligan!

  All true, Dick, true as you’re alive —

  I’ve seen him, some hours since, arrive.

  Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant —

  And Tuesday, in the market-place,

  Intends, to every saint and sinner in’t,

  To state what he calls Ireland’s Case;

  Meaning thereby the case of his shop,-

  Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop,

  And all those other grades seraphic,

  That make men’s souls their special traffic,

  Tho’ caring not a pin which way

  The erratic souls go, so they pay. —

  Just as some roguish country nurse,

  Who takes a foundling babe to suckle,

  First pops the payment in her purse,

  Then leaves poor dear to — suck its knuckle:

  Even so these reverend rigmaroles

  Pocket the money — starve the souls.

  Murtagh, however, in his glory,

  Will tell, next week, a different story;

  Will make out all these men of barter,

  As each a saint, a downright martyr,

  Brought to the stake — i.e. a beef one,

  Of all their martyrdoms the chief one;

  Tho’ try them even at this, they’ll bear it,

  If tender and washt down with claret.

  Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions.

  Your saintly, next to great and high ‘uns —

  (A Viscount, be he what he may,

  Would cut a Saint out any day,)

  Has just announced a godly rout,

  Where Murtagh’s to be first brought out,

  And shown in his tame, week-day state: —

  “Prayers, half-past seven, tea at eight.”

  Even so the circular missive orders —

  Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders.

  Haste, Dick — you’re lost, if you lose time; —

  Spinsters at forty-five grow giddy,

  And Murtagh with his tropes sublime

  Will surely carry off old Biddy,

  Unless some spark at once propose,