The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 249

_tu Regibus alas eripe_ VERGIL, _Georg. lib_. iv.

--Clip the wings Of these high-flying arbitrary Kings.

DRYDEN'S _Translation_.

DEDICATION.

TO LORD BYRON.

Dear Lord Byron,--Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we pa.s.sed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I am,

My dear Lord,

Ever faithfully yours,

T. B.

PREFACE.

Though it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honor of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state, that, except in the "painful pre-eminence" of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the t.i.tle-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume.

I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Inst.i.tution, the names and characters of the different members, etc.--but as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the "Transactions of the Pococurante Society," I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject, and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either "Nancy Dawson" or "He stole away the Bacon."

It may be as well also to state for the information of those critics who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such a.s.sailants, than is contained in the three words "_non curat Hippoclides_" (meaning, in English, "Hippoclides does not care a fig,") which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco- curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading _dictum_ of the sect.

THOMAS BROWN.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

FABLE I.

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I've had a dream that bodes no good Unto the Holy Brotherhood.

I may be wrong, but I confess-- As far as it is right or lawful For one, no conjurer, to guess-- It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood A beautiful Ice Palace stood, A dome of frost-work, on the plan Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1]

Which shone by moonlight--as the tale is-- Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnisht all And lighted as the best on land are, I dreamt there was a splendid Ball, Given by the Emperor Alexander, To entertain with all due zeal, Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a Regard so kind for Europe's weal, At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.

The thought was happy--and designed To hint how thus the human Mind May, like the stream imprisoned there, Be checkt and chilled, till it can bear The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it.

And all were pleased and cold and stately, s.h.i.+vering in grand illumination-- Admired the superstructure greatly, Nor gave one thought to the foundation.

Much too the Tsar himself exulted, To all plebeian fears a stranger, For, Madame Krudener, when consulted, Had pledged her word there was no danger So, on he capered, fearless quite, Thinking himself extremely clever, And waltzed away with all his might, As if the Frost would last forever.

Just fancy how a bard like me, Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled To see that goodly company, At such a ticklish sport a.s.sembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded My loyal soul, at all unfounded-- For, lo! ere long, those walls so ma.s.sy Were seized with an ill-omened dripping, And o'er the floors, now growing gla.s.sy, Their Holinesses took to slipping.

The Tsar, half thro' a Polonaise, Could scarce get on for downright stumbling; And Prussia, tho' to slippery ways Well used, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas, _who_ could stamp the floor most, Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.-- And now, to an Italian air, This precious brace would, hand in hand, go; Now--while old Louis, from his chair, Intreated them his toes to spare-- Called loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had, At which they all set to, like mad!

Never were Kings (tho' small the expense is Of wit among their Excellencies) So out of all their princely senses, But ah! that dance--that Spanish dance-- Scarce was the luckless strain begun, When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance Shot from an angry Southern sun, A light thro' all the chambers flamed, Astonis.h.i.+ng old Father Frost, Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed, "A thaw, by Jove--we're lost, we're lost!

"Run, France--a second _Water_loo "Is come to drown you-_sauve qui peut_!"

Why, why will monarchs caper so In palaces without foundations?-- Instantly all was in a flow, Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations-- Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice, Cut out in the resplendent ice-- Those Eagles, handsomely provided With double heads for double dealings-- How fast the globes and sceptres glided Out of their claws on all the ceilings!

Proud Prussia's double bird of prey Tame as a spatch c.o.c.k, slunk away; While--just like France herself, when she Proclaims how great her naval skill is-- Poor Louis's drowning fleurs-de-lys Imagined themselves _water_-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves, But--still more fatal execution-- The Great Legitimates themselves Seemed in a state of dissolution.

The indignant Tsar--when just about To issue a sublime Ukase, "Whereas all light must be kept out"-- Dissolved to nothing in its blaze.

Next Prussia took his turn to melt, And, while his lips ill.u.s.trious felt The influence of this southern air, Some word, like "Const.i.tution"--long Congealed in frosty silence there-- Came slowly thawing from his tongue.

While Louis, lapsing by degrees, And sighing out a faint adieu To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese And smoking _fondus_, quickly grew, Himself, into a _fondu_ too;-- Or like that goodly King they make Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake, When, in some urchin's mouth, alas!

It melts into a shapeless ma.s.s!

In short, I scarce could count a minute, Ere the bright dome and all within it, Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone-- And nothing now was seen or heard But the bright river, rus.h.i.+ng on, Happy as an enfranchised bird, And prouder of that natural ray, s.h.i.+ning along its chainless way-- More proudly happy thus to glide In simple grandeur to the sea, Than when, in sparkling fetters tied, 'Twas deckt with all that kingly pride Could bring to light its slavery!

Such is my dream--and, I confess, I tremble at its awfulness.

That Spanish Dance--that southern beam-- But I say nothing--there's my dream-- And Madame Krudener, the she-prophet, May make just what she pleases of it.

[1] "It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect."--PINKERTON.

FABLE II.

THE LOOKING-GLa.s.sES.