The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare,
Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch
there,

We extract for our readers the' intelligence given,
In our latest accounts from that ci-devant heaven-
That realm of the By-gones, where still sit, in state,
Old god-heads and nod-heads, now long out of date.

The French, who of slaughter had had their full
swing,

Were content with a shot, now and then, at their
King;

While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard
to gain,

Nobody's left to fight with, but Lord C―rd—g—D.

'Tis needless to say, then, how monstrously happy
Old Mars has been made by what's now on the tapis;
How much it delights him to see the French rally,

Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er, In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali ;
Seems to find immortality rather a bore;

Well knowing that Satan himself could not find

Though he still asks for news of earth's capers and A confection of mischief much more to his mind Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw combin'd.

crimes,

And reads daily his old fellow-Thund'rer, the
Times.
[peck'd are,
He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-
And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,
And pack'd off to earth on a puff-speculation.

Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were
attackers,

Whatever their cause, that they didn't find backers;
While any slight care for Humanity's woes
May be sooth'd by that " Art Diplomatique," which
shows

The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim, How to come, in the most approv'd method, to blows.
Since bards look'd to Bentley and Colburn, not him.
So, he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags,
Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the
Mags;

Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to
linger in't,
[finger in't.

From which men could guess that the god had a

This is all, for to-day-whether Mars is much vext
At his friend Thiers's exit, we'll know by our next.

THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

OUR earth, as it rolls through the regions of space,

Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny; And poor human life runs the same sort of race, Being sad, on one side-on the other side, funny.

Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie,

To weep o'er the woes of Macready ;--but scarce Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy pass'd from the eye,

When, lo, we're all laughing in fits at the Farce.

And still let us laugh-preach the world as it may-
Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will

soon follow;

Heroics are very grand things, in their way,

But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.

Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or For instance, what sermon on human affairs

somehow,

Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row: "
But the joke wouldn't take-the whole world had
got wiser;

Men lik'd not to take a Great Gun for adviser;
And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot,
Without very well knowing for whom or for what.

Could equal the scene that took place t'other day 'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairsThe Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied,
And whose worship not ev'n among Christians

declines,

In our senate thou'st languish'd since Sheridan died, But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honour'd the stall where he sits, And be his every honour he deigneth to climb at! Had England a hierarchy form'd all of wits,

Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate ?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry, and braveA Horace to hear, and a Paschal to read; While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave,

We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.

Meanwhile, it much glads us to find he's preparing To teach other bishops to "seek the right way;"2 And means shortly to treat the whole bench to an airing,

Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.

For our parts, though gravity's good for the soul, Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on, We'd rather with Sydney south-west take a "stroll," Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM T. M. TÓ S. R.

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 pass'd away,
When, doom'd in upper floors to star it,
The bard inscrib'd 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 launch'd triumphant in the Row,
Or ta'en by Murray's self in tow,

Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail Is whisk'd from England by the gale,

But bears on board some authors, shipp'd
For foreign shores, all well-equipp'd
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 enjoin'd on all who go
To study first Miss M********,
And learn from her the method true,
To do one's books-and readers, too.
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 blink'd-
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 learn'd to patronise 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 open'd 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 shore;
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 God of Song
Drove his own two-horse team along,

Some parts of the Provinciales may be said to be of the trived for your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, highest order of jeux d'esprit or, squibs.

2" This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well con

that instead of going E. and N. E. you had turned about," &c. &c.- SYDNEY SMITH's Last Letter to the Bishop of London.

Ye Gods! 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 through 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, litter'd in a hurry,
Becomes "immortal." spite of Murray.

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 L-nd-st, 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 L—nd—st's doings-
Beyond even Hecate's “hell-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 mix'd, and matchless all;
A compound nought in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, rid'st the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee—
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, 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 fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
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 land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St-ni-y.
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, "swelter'd venom" got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot; "2
And, thanks to practice on that land,
I stir it with a master-hand.

Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus. -- HORAT.

"Swelter'd venom, sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot."

Again thou'lt see, when forth hath 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 titheful 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 L-NDH-T.

As, except when some tithe-hunting parson show'd 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 turn'd out,
Or, the' Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs!

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 hit 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 allow'd to increase,
Might have snor'd myself down to a Justice of
Peace.

Like you, Reformation in Church and in State DEAR L―ndh—t,—you'll pardon my making thus 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

free,

But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,

pike,

And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Have both the same praiseworthy object, in pri- Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors

vate

Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,

Where Rock hath long reign'd, have one instant of quiet,

were worth.

But we must not despair-even already Hope sees You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you, Who have box'd the whole compass of party right

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 Play'd so well into each other's hands as we do; Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufac

ture,

Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to frac

ture.

Not Birmingham's self-to her shame be it spo

But, hark, there's a shot! tioner? No-merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner; E'er made things more neatly contriv'd to be The Courts having now, with true law erudition,

In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks! If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment.

Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!
Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of
Peers!

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

but spares

Me and L-ndh-t, to look after Ireland's affairs,
We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,
That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it

Even already-long life to such Big-wigs, say L
For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die—
He has serv'd our right riotous cause by a speech
Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;
As it shows off both his and my merits alike,

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ. Both the swell of the wig, and the point of the pike;

To play, in such concert, the true double-base.
I had fear'd this old prop of my realm was beginning
To tire of his course of political sinning,

And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,
Meant, by way of a change, to try virtue at last.
But I wrong'd the old boy, who as staunchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides ;
And, by using two faces through life, all allow,
Has acquir'd face sufficient for any thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe,
My "Lord Harry" himself - who's the leader,
we know,

Of another red-hot Opposition, below

1 The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

Mixes up, with a skill which one can't but admire,
The lawyer's cool craft with the' incendiary's fire,
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner! ]
Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it
fly;

Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter'd

By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,
Till nought shall be heard, over hill, dale, or flood,

But "You're aliens in language, in creed, and in

blood;"

While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,

Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, “We are!"
And, though false be the cry, and though sense
must abhor it,

Still the' echoes may quote Law authority for it,
And nought L-ndh-t cares for my spread of

dominion;

So he, in the end, touches cash "for the' opinion.”

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,
Being busy in helping these Lords through their

row:

They're bad hands at mob-work, but, once they begin,

They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.

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