The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 246

For our parts, gravity's good for the soul, Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on, We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll,"

Than _coach_ it north-east with his Lords.h.i.+p of Lunnun.

[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your Lords.h.i.+p's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and N. E. you had turned about," etc.--SYDNEY SMITH'S _Last Letter to the Bishop of London_.

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.

What, _thou_, my friend! a man of rhymes, And, better still, a man of guineas, To talk of "patrons," in these times, When authors thrive like spinning-jennies, And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no--those times are past away, When, doomed in upper floors to star it.

The bard inscribed to lords his lay,-- Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.

No more he begs with air dependent.

His "little bark may sail attendant"

Under some lordly skipper's steerage; But launched triumphant in the Row, Or taken by Murray's self in tow.

Cuts both _Star Chamber_ and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail Is whiskt from England by the gale.

But bears on board some authors, s.h.i.+pt For foreign sh.o.r.es, all well equipt With proper book-making machinery, To sketch the morals, manners, scenery, Of all such lands as they shall see, Or _not_ see, as the case may be:-- It being enjoined on all who go To study first Miss Martineau, And learn from her the method true,[too.

To _do_ one's books--and readers, For so this nymph of _nous_ and nerve Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"

And, lest mankind at all should swerve, Teaches them also "_What_ to Observe."

No, no, my friend--it can?t be blinkt-- The Patron is a race extinct; As dead as any Megatherion That ever Buckland built a theory on.

Instead of bartering in this age Our praise for pence and patronage, We authors now more prosperous elves, Have learned to patronize ourselves; And since all-potent Puffing's made The life of song, the soul of trade.

More frugal of our praises grown, We puff no merits but our own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise Which critics blew in former days, Our modern puffs are of a kind That truly, really _raise the wind;_ And since they've fairly set in blowing, We find them the best _trade_-winds going.

'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy As her old haunts near Aganippe, The Muse now taking to the till Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill (Far handier than the Hill of Pindus, As seen from bard's back attic windows): And swallowing there without cessation Large draughts (_at sight_) of inspiration, Touches the _notes_ for each new theme, While still fresh "_change_ comes o'er her dream."

What Steam is on the deep--and more-- Is the vast power of Puff on sh.o.r.e; Which jumps to glory's future tenses Before the present even commences; And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us Before the world has read one line of us.

In old times, when the G.o.d of Song Drove his own two-horse team along, Carrying inside a bard or two, Bookt for posterity "all thro';"-- Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes, (Like yours, my friend,) for after-times-- So slow the pull to Fame's abode, That folks oft slept upon the road;-- And Homer's self, sometimes, they say, Took to his night-cap on the way.

Ye G.o.ds! how different is the story With our new galloping sons of glory, Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, Dash to posterity in _no_ time!

Raise but one general blast of Puff To start your author--that's enough.

In vain the critics set to watch him Try at the starting post to catch him: He's off--the puffers carry it hollow-- The _critics_, if they please, may follow.

Ere _they_'ve laid down their first positions, He's fairly blown thro' six editions!

In vain doth Edinburgh dispense Her blue and yellow pestilence (That plague so awful in my time To young and touchy sons of rhyme)-- The _Quarterly_, at three months' date, To catch the Unread One, comes too late; And nonsense, littered in a hurry, Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.

But bless me!--while I thus keep fooling, I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling."

That postman too (who, truth to tell, 'Mong men of letters bears the bell,) Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally That I _must_ stop-- Yours sempiternally.

THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

BY LORD STANLEY.

(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)

"Evil, be thou my good."

--MILTON.

How various are the inspirations Of different men in different nations!

As genius prompts to good or evil, Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.

Old Socrates, that pink of sages, Kept a pet demon on board wages To go about with him incog., And sometimes give his wits a jog.

So Lyndhurst, in _our_ day, we know, Keeps fresh relays of imps below, To forward from that nameless spot; His inspirations, hot and hot.

But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings-- Beyond even Hecate's "h.e.l.l-broth" brewings-- Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will, I'd show you mischief prettier still; Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks With age's sourest politics; The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall, Both duly mixt, and matchless all; A compound naught in history reaches But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, G.o.ddess multiform, Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm, Let Stanley ride c.o.c.khorse behind thee-- No livelier lackey could they find thee.

And, G.o.ddess, as I'm well aware, So mischief's _done_, you care not _where_, I own, 'twill most _my_ fancy tickle In Paddyland to play the Pickle; Having got credit for inventing A new, brisk method of tormenting-- A way they call the Stanley fas.h.i.+on, Which puts all Ireland in a pa.s.sion; So neat it hits the mixture due Of injury and insult too; So legibly it bears upon't The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means the land of _Ire_; And _why_ she's so, none need inquire, Who sees her millions, martial, manly, Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley.

Already in the breeze I scent The whiff of coming devilment; Of strife, to me more stirring far Than the Opium or the Sulphur war, Or any such drug ferments are.

Yes--sweeter to this Tory soul Than all such pests, from pole to pole, Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"

And thanks to practice on that land I stir it with a master-hand.

Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!"

How Caravats and Shanavests Shall swarm from out their mountain nests, With all their merry moonlight brothers, To whom the Church (_step_-dame to others) Hath been the best of nursing mothers.

Again o'er Erin's rich domain Shall Rockites and right reverends reign; And both, exempt from vulgar toil, Between them share that t.i.theful soil; Puzzling ambition _which_ to climb at, The post of Captain, or of Primate.

And so, long life to Church and Co.-- Hurrah for mischief!--here we go.

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,-- But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at, Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private-- Namely, never to let the old regions of riot, Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet, But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her To love more than meat, drink, or clothing--_hot water_.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it, Is simply, that _you_ make the law and _I_ break it; And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two Played so well into each other's hands as we do; Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture, Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture.

Not Birmingham's self--to her shame be it spoken-- E'er made things more neatly contrived to be broken; And hence, I confess, in this island religious, The breakage of laws--and of heads _is_ prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,-- Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by; As, except when some t.i.the-hunting parson showed sport, Some rector--a cool hand at pistols and port, Who "keeps dry" his _powder_, but never _himself_-- One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf, Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges, Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges; Except when some hero of this sort turned out, Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its t.i.the-writs[1] about-- A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery, Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery; So neat, that even _I_ might be proud, I allow, To have bit off so rich a receipt for a _row_;-- Except for such rigs turning up, now and then, I was actually growing the dullest of men; And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase, Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace.

Like you, Reformation in Church and in State Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate.

If once these curst Ministers do as they like, All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike, And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Just to show what _such_ Captains and Chancellors were worth.