The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 210

LITERARY ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season, No matter which party, so faithful to neither; Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.

Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics; Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat; They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics, And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools-- He can study high life in the King's Bench community; Aristotle could scarce keep him more _within rules_, And of _place_ he at least must adhere to the _unity_.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher) Will meet with encouragement--so much, _per_ page, And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with _what_ their remembrance is stockt, So they'll only remember the _quantum_ desired;-- Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, _oct_., Price twenty-four s.h.i.+llings, is all that's required.

They may treat us, like Kelly, with old _jeu-d'esprits_, Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic; Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1]

That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.

Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn By "Farmers" and "Landholders"--(worthies whose lands Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn, Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands).

No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein, Sure of a market;--should they too who pen 'em Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2]

Something _extra_ allowed for the additional venom.

Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance, All excellent subjects for turning a penny;-- To write upon _all_ is an author's sole chance For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of _any_.

Nine times out of ten, if his _t.i.tle_ is good, The material _within_ of small consequence is;-- Let him only write fine, and, if not understood, Why--that's the concern of the reader, not his.

_Nota Bene_--an Essay, now printing, to show, That Horace (as clearly as words could express it) Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago, When he wrote thus--"Quodcunque _in Fund is, a.s.sess it."_

[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "_comme pour elle_."

[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the Irish Committees.

THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]

1827.

I heard as I lay, a wailing sound, "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew; And I raised my chain and turned me round, And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pa.s.s; Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!

For never came joy to them alas!

That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night, And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?

"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right, "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win, "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt "What suitors for justice he'd keep in, "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance, "Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea "Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance "Of shaking him off--is't he? is't he?"

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled, And thrusting me back to my den of woe, With a laughter even more fierce and wild Than their funeral howling, answered "No."

But the cry still pierced my prison-gate, And again I askt, "What scourge is gone?

"Is it he--that Chief, so coldly great, "Whom Fame unwillingly s.h.i.+nes upon--

"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words "They link with hate on his native plains; "And why?--they lent him hearts and swords, "And he in return gave scoffs and chains!

"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired, When, hark!--there sounded a Royal knell; And I knew what spirit had just expired, And slave as I was my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine, He had left to the future nor hope nor choice, But sealed that hate with a Name Divine, And he now was dead and--I _couldn't_ rejoice!

He had fanned afresh the burning brands Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim; He had armed anew my torturers' hands, And _them_ did I curse--but sighed for him.

For, _his_ was the error of head not heart; And--oh! how beyond the ambushed foe, Who to enmity adds the traitor's part, And carries a smile with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends For the fatal fault of an erring head-- Go, learn _his_ fame from the lips of friends, In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A Prince without pride, a man without guile, To the last unchanging, warm, sincere, For Worth he had ever a hand and smile, And for Misery ever his purse and tear.

Touched to the heart by that solemn toll, I calmly sunk in my chains again; While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!"

My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"

January, 1827.

[1] Written on the death of the Duke of York.

[2] "You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks."--_Story of Sinbad_.

ODE TO FERDINAND.

1827.

Quit the sword, thou King of men, Grasp the needle once again; Making petticoats is far Safer sport than making war; Tr.i.m.m.i.n.g is a better thing, Than the _being_ trimmed, oh King!

Grasp the needle bright with which Thou didst for the Virgin st.i.tch Garment, such as ne'er before Monarch st.i.tched or Virgin wore, Not for her, oh semster nimble!

Do I now invoke thy thimble; Not for her thy wanted aid is, But for certain grave old ladies, Who now sit in England's cabinet, Waiting to be clothed in tabinet, Or whatever choice _etoffe_ is Fit for Dowagers in office.