The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 241

[2] The zoological term for a t.i.the-eater.

[3] The man found by Scheuchzer, and supposed by him to have witnessed the Deluge ("_h.o.m.o diluvii testis_"), but who turned out, I am sorry to say, to be merely a great lizard.

[4] Particularly the formation called _Transition_ Trap.

SONG OF THE CHURCH.

No. 1.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, '_leave us alone_.' The Established Church is part and parcel of the const.i.tution of this country. You are bound to conform to this const.i.tution. We ask of you nothing more:--_let us alone_."

--Letter in _The Times_, Nov. 1838.

1838.

Come, list to my pastoral tones, In clover my shepherds I keep; My stalls are well furnisht with drones, Whose preaching invites one to sleep.

At my _spirit_ let infidels scoff, So they leave but the _substance_ my own; For in sooth I'm extremely well off If the world will but let me alone.

Dissenters are grumblers, we know;-- Tho' excellent men in their way, They never like things to be _so_, Let things be however they may.

But dissenting's a trick I detest; And besides 'tis an axiom well known, The creed that's best paid is the best, If the _un_paid would let it alone.

To me, I own, very surprising Your Newmans and Puseys all seem, Who start first with rationalizing, Then jump to the other extreme.

Far better, 'twixt nonsense and sense, A nice _half_-way concern, like our own, Where piety's mixt up with pence, And the latter are _ne'er_ left alone.

Of all our tormentors, the Press is The one that most tears us to bits; And now, Mrs. Woolfrey's "excesses"

Have thrown all its imps into fits.

The devils have been at us, for weeks, And there's no saying when they'll have done;-- Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone!

If any need pray for the dead, 'Tis those to whom post-obits fall; Since wisely hath Solomon said, 'Tis "money that answereth all."

But ours be the patrons who _live_;- For, once in their glebe they are thrown, The dead have no living to give, And therefore we leave them alone.

Tho' in morals we may not excel, Such perfection is rare to be had; A good life is, of course, very well, But good living is also-not bad.

And when, to feed earth-worms, I go.

Let this epitaph stare from my stone, "Here lies the Right Rev. so and so; "Pa.s.s, stranger, and--leave him alone."

EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said-- That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet, Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street, Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces, Didn?t burst out a laughing in each other's faces.

What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago, Even we in the present times pretty well know; Having soothsayers also, who--sooth to say, John-- Are no better in some points than those of days gone, And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me), Might laugh in their sleeves, too--all lawn tho' they be.

But this, by the way--my intention being chiefly In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly, That, seeing how fond you of _Tuum_[1] must be, While _Meum's_ at all times the main point with me, We scarce could do better than form an alliance, To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance: You, John, recollect, being still to embark, With no share in the firm but your t.i.tle and _mark_; Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldn?t much mind; While _my_ church as usual holds fast by your Tuum, And every one else's, to make it all Suum.

Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree, As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we; Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast, (See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest: Both mettlesome _chargers_, both brisk pamphleteers, Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears; And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer By any given cause than I found it the stronger, And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel, When the tone ecclesiastic won?t do, try the _civil_.

In short (not to bore you, even _jure divino_) We've the same cause in common, John--all but the rhino; And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may be, As you're not used to cash, John, you'd best leave to me.

And so, without form--as the postman won?t tarry-- I'm, dear Jack of Tuain, Yours, EXETER HARRY.

[1] So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand, frequently chants:-- "Had every one _Suum_, You wouldn?t have _Tuum_, But I should have _Meum_, And sing _Te Deum_."

SONG OF OLD PUCK.

"And those things do best please me, That befall preposterously."

PUCK Junior, _Midsummer Night's Dream_.

Who wants old Puck? for here am I, A mongrel imp, 'twixt earth and sky, Ready alike to crawl or fly; Now in the mud, now in the air, And, so 'tis for mischief, reckless where.

As to my knowledge, there's no end to't, For, where I haven't it, I pretend to't: And, 'stead of taking a learned degree At some dull university, Puck found it handier to commence With a certain share of impudence, Which pa.s.ses one off as learned and clever, Beyond all other degrees whatever; And enables a man of lively sconce To be Master of _all_ the Arts at once.

No matter what the science may be-- Ethics, Physics, Theology, Mathematics, Hydrostatics, Aerostatics or Pneumatics-- Whatever it be, I take my luck, 'Tis all the same to ancient Puck; Whose head's so full of all sorts of wares, That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears If I had but of _law_ a little smattering, I'd then be _perfect_--which is flattering.

My skill as a linguist all must know Who met me abroad some months ago; (And heard me _abroad_ exceedingly, In the moods and tenses of _parlez vous_) When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute, I spoke such French to the Inst.i.tute As puzzled those learned Thebans much, To know if 'twas Sanscrit or High Dutch, And _might_ have past with the un.o.bserving As one of the unknown tongues of Irving.

As to my talent for ubiquity, There's nothing like it in all antiquity.

Like Mungo (my peculiar care) "I'm here, I'm dere, I'm ebery where."

If any one's wanted to take the chair Upon any subject, any where, Just look around, and--Puck is there!

When slaughter's at hand, your bird of prey Is never known to be out of the way: And wherever mischief's to be got, There's Puck _instanter_, on the spot.

Only find me in negus and applause, And I'm your man for _any_ cause.

If _wrong_ the cause, the more my delight; But I don?t object to it, even when _right_, If I only can vex some old friend by't; There's Durham, for instance;--to worry _him_ Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim!

(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)