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Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues
Of Genius can no more disguise,
Than the sun's beams can do away
The filth of fens o'er which they play-
This scene, which would have fill'd my heart
With thoughts of all that happiest is;-
Of Love, where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss;
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills

Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them, like sequester'd rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow;
Of happy days, that share their beams
"Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ;
Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,

The moonlight of the morning's joy!-
All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those gross mementos near;
Those sullying truths, that cross the track
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire, and strife,

And vanities of that man's life,
Who, more than all that e'er have glow'd
With Fancy's flame (and it was his
In fullest warmth and radiance), show'd
What an impostor Genius is;
How, with that strong, mimetic art,

Which forms its life and soul, it takes
All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,
Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes;
How like a gem its light may smile

O'er the dark path, by mortals trod,

Itself as mean a worm, the while,

As crawls at midnight o'er the sod;
What gentle words and thoughts may fall
From its false lip, what zeal to bless,
While home, friends, kindred, country, all,
Lie waste beneath its selfishness;
How, with the pencil hardly dry

From colouring up such scenes of love
And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,
And dream, and think through heav'n they rove,
They, who can thus describe and move,
The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek, nor know a joy, above
Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all, in short, that makes the boast
Of their false tongues, they want the most;
And, while with freedom on their lips,

Sounding their timbrels, to set free
This bright world, labouring in the' eclipse
Of priestcraft, and of slavery,—
They may, themselves, be slaves as low
As ever Lord or Patron made
To blossom in his smile, or grow,

Like stunted brushwood, in his shade. Out on the craft!-I'd rather be One of those hinds, that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see

The noonday sun that's o'er his head, Than thus, with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that's brightest, worst, Sublimest, meanest in creation!

SATIRE S.

PREFACE.

THE political opinions adopted in the first of these Satires-the Poem on Corruption - were chiefly caught up, as is intimated in the original Preface, from the writings of Bolingbroke, Sir William Wyndham, and other statesmen of that factious period, when the same sort of alliance took place between Toryism and what is now called Radicalism, which is always likely to ensue on the ejection of the Tory party from power.* In the somewhat rash effusion, it will be seen that neither of the two great English parties is handled with much respect; and I remember being taken to task, by one of the few of my Whig acquaintances that ever looked into the poem, for the following allusion to the silencing effects of official station on certain orators;

As bees, on flowers alighting, cease their hum,
So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.

But these attempts of mine in the stately, Juvenalian style of satire, met with but little success, -never having attained, I believe, even the honours of a second edition; and I found that lighter form of weapon, to which I afterwards betook myself, not only more easy to wield, but, from its very lightness, perhaps

more sure to reach its mark.

It would almost seem, too, as if the same unembittered spirit, the same freedom from all real malice with which, in most instances, this sort of squib warfare has been waged by me, was felt, in some degree, even by those who were themselves the objects of it;-so generously forgiving have I, in most instances, found them. Even the high Personage against whom the earliest and perhaps most successful of my lighter missiles were launched, could refer to and quote them, as I learn from an incident mentioned in the Life of Sir Walter Scott†,

Bolingbroke himself acknowledges that "both parties were become factions, in the strict sense of the word."

with a degree of good-humour and playfulness which was creditable alike to his temper and good sense. At a memorable dinner given by the Regent to Sir Walter in the year 1815, Scott, among other stories with which his royal host was much amused, told of a sentence passed by an old friend of his, the Lord Justice Clerk Braxfield, attended by circumstances in which the cruelty of this waggish judge was even more conspicuous than his humour. "The Regent laughed heartily," says the biographer, at this specimen of Braxfield's brutal humour; and I' faith, Walter,' said he, this old bigwig seems to have taken things as coolly as my tyrannical self. Don't you remember Tom Moore's description of me at breakfast? —

66

'The table spread with tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.""

In reference to this, and other less exalted instances, of the good-humoured spirit in which my "innocui sales" have in general been taken, I shall venture to cite here a few flattering sentences which, coming as they did from a political adversary and a stranger, touched me far more by their generosity than even by their praise. In speaking of the pension which had just then been conferred upon me, and expressing, in warm terms, his approval of the grant, the editor of a leading Tory journal thus liberally expresses himself:-"We know that some will blame us for our prejudice — if it be prejudice, in favour of Mr. Moore; but we cannot help it. As he tells us himself,

Wit a diamond brings

That cuts its bright way through'

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sible even for those whose enemies wits are, to him, been in some degree anticipated ‡, in a hate them!

To return to the period of the Regency :In the numerous attacks from the government press, which my occasional volleys of small shot against the Court used to draw down upon me, it was constantly alleged, as an aggravation of my misdeeds, that I had been indebted to the Royal personage thus assailed by me for many kind and substantial services. Luckily, the list | of the benefits showered upon me from that high quarter may be despatched in a few sentences. At the request of the Earl of Moira, one of my earliest and best friends, his Royal Highness graciously permitted me to dedicate to him my Translation of the Odes of Anacreon. I was twice, I think, admitted to the honour of dining at Carlton House; and when the Prince, on his being made Regent in 1811, gave his memorable fête, I was one of the crowd-about 1500, I believe, in number—who enjoyed the privilege of being his guests on the occasion.

There occur some allusions, indeed, in the Twopenny Post-Bag, to the absurd taste displayed in the ornaments of the Royal suppertable at that fête*; and this violation for such, to a certain extent, I allow it to have been - of the reverence due to the rights of the Hospitable Jove†, which, whether administered by prince or peasant, ought to be sacred from such exposure, I am by no means disposed to defend. But, whatever may be thought of the taste or prudence of some of these satires, there exists no longer, I apprehend, much difference of opinion respecting the character of the Royal personage against whom they were aimed. Already, indeed, has the stern verdict which the voice of History cannot but pronounce upon

"The same fauteuils and girandoles -
The same gold asses, pretty souls,
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home:

The same bright river, 'mong the dishes,
But not ah! not the same dear fishes.
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones;-
So, 'stend of silver and of gold ones,

(It being rather hard to raise
Fish of that specie now-a-days)

Some sprats have been, by Y-rm-h's wish,
Promoted into silver fish,

And gudgeons (so V-ns-tt-t told
The Reg-nt) are as good as gold."

Twopenny Post-Bag, p. 137.

sketch of the domestic events of his reign supposed to have proceeded from the pen of one who was himself an actor in some of its most painful scenes, and who, from his professional ¦ position, commanded a near insight into the character of that exalted individual, both as husband and father. To the same high authority I must refer for an account of the myste rious "Book §," to which allusion is more than once made in the following pages.

One of the earliest and most successful of the numerous trifles I wrote at that period, was the Parody on the Regent's celebrated Letter, announcing to the world that he "had no predi lections," &c. This very opportune squib was at first circulated privately; my friend, Mr. Perry, having for some time hesitated to publish it. He got some copies of it, however, printed off for me, which I sent round to several members of the Whig party; and, having to meet a number of them at dinner immediately after, found it no easy matter to keep my countenance while they were discussing among them the merits of the Parody. One of the party, I re collect, having quoted to me the following description of the state of both King and Regent, at that moment,

"A strait waistcoat on him, and restrictions on me,
A more limited monarchy could not well be,”

grew rather provoked with me for not enjoying
the fun of the parody as much as himself.

While thus the excitement of party feelir: lent to the political trifles contained in this volume a relish and pungency not their ow an effect has been attributed to two squis wholly unconnected with politics—the Letters from the Dowager Countess of Cork, and from

"Ante fores stabat Jovis Hospitis ara."

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Edinburgh Review, No. cxxxv., George the Fourth and Qua Caroline. When the Prince entered upon public life he was found to have exhausted the resources of a career of pleasure; to ha gained followers without making friends; to have acquired ma envy and some admiration among the unthinking multitale f polished society; but not to command in any quarter either repers or esteem. The portrait which we have painted of him a undoubtedly one of the darkest shade and most repulsive farm "There is no doubt whatever that The Book, written by M Perceval, and privately printed at his house, under Lord Eldd superintendence and his own, was prepared in concert with th King, and was intended to sound the alarm against Carison Hous and the Whigs."—Ed. Review, ib.

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