The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 255

Genteeler thus to date my Book; And BIDDY'S right--besides, it curries Some favor with our friends at MURRAY'S, Who scorn what any man can say, That dates from Rue St. Honore![4]

[1] This excellent imitation of the n.o.ble Lord's style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B----, in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, "He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and," etc.

[2] See her Letters.

[3] It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amus.e.m.e.nts of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artaba.n.u.s, the, hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the Prince Regent!

[4] See the _Quarterly Review_ for May, 1816 where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book "in a back street of the French capital."

LETTER III.

FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ----, ESQ.

Oh d.i.c.k! you may talk of your writing and reading, Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding; And _this_ is the place for it, d.i.c.kY, you dog, Of all places on earth--the headquarters of Prog!

Talk of England--her famed _Magna Charta_, I swear, is A humbug, a flam, to the Carte[1] at old VeRY'S; And as for your Juries--_who_ would not set o'er 'em A Jury of Tasters, with woodc.o.c.ks before 'em?

Give CARTWRIGHT his Parliaments, fresh every year; But those friends of _short Commons_ would never do here; And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question.

No Digest of Law's like the laws of digestion!

By the by, d.i.c.k, _I_ fatten--but _n'importe_ for that, 'Tis the mode--your Legitimates always get fat.

There's the REGENT, there's LOUIS--and BONEY tried too, But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't do:-- He improved indeed much in this point when he wed, But he ne'er grew right royally fat _in the head_.

d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k, what a place is this Paris!--but stay-- As my raptures may bore you, I'll just sketch a Day, As we pa.s.s it, myself and some comrades I've got, All thorough-bred _Gnostics_, who know what is what.

After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne, That Elysium of all that is _friand_ and nice, Where for hail they have _bon-bons_, and claret for rain, And the skaters in winter show off on _cream_-ice; Where so ready all nature its cookery yields, _Macaroni au parmesan_ grows in the fields; Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint, And the geese are all born with a liver complaint!

I rise--put on neck-cloth--stiff, tight, as can be-- For a lad who _goes into the world_, d.i.c.k, like me, Should have his neck tied up, you know--there's no doubt of it-- Almost as tight as _some_ lads who _go out of it_.

With whiskers well oiled, and with boots that "hold up "The mirror to nature"--so bright you could sup Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause!-- With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader, And stays--devil's in them--too tight for a feeder, I strut to the old Cafe Hardy, which yet Beats the field at a _dejeuner a la fourchette_.

There, d.i.c.k, what a breakfast!--oh! not like your ghost Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast; But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about, Like a turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out One's pate of larks, just to tune up the throat, One's small limbs of chickens, done _en papillote_.

One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain, Or one's kidneys--imagine, d.i.c.k--done with champagne!

Then, some gla.s.ses of _Beaune_, to dilute--or, mayhap, _Chambertin_,[2]which you know's the pet tipple of NAP, And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler, Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.-- Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then d.i.c.k's The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix, (If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't, I'd swallow e'en Watkins', for sake of the end on't,) A neat gla.s.s of _parfait-amour_, which one sips Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one's lips.

This repast being ended, and _paid for_--(how odd!

Till a man's used to paying, there's something so queer in't!)-- The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad, And the world enough aired for us n.o.bs to appear in't, We lounge up the boulevards, where--oh! d.i.c.k, the phizzes, The turn-outs, we meet--what a nation of quizzes!

Here toddles along some old figure of fun, With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.; A laced hat, worsted stockings, and--n.o.ble old soul!

A fine ribbon and cross in his best b.u.t.ton-hole; Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads, Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds.

Here trips a _grisette_, with a fond, roguish eye, (Rather eatable things these _grisettes_, by the by); And there an old _demoiselle_, almost as fond, In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.

There goes a French Dandy--ah, d.i.c.k! unlike some ones We've seen about WHITE'S--the Mounseers are but rum ones; Such hats!--fit for monkies--I'd back Mrs. DRAPER To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper: And coats--how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em, They'd club for old BRUMMEL, from Calais, to dress 'em!

The collar sticks out from the neck such a s.p.a.ce, That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this head-lopping nation, To leave there behind them a snug little place For the head to drop into, on decapitation.

In short, what with mountebanks, counts and friseurs, _Some_ mummers by trade and the rest amateurs-- What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches, Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, And s...o...b..acks, reclining by statues in niches, There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

From the Boulevards--but hearken!--yes--as I'm a sinner, The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner: So _no_ more at present--short time for adorning-- My Day must be finisht some other fine morning.

Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'S[3] larder, my boy!

And, once _there_, if the G.o.ddess of Beauty and Joy Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge-- Not a step, d.i.c.k, as sure as my name is R. FUDGE.

[1] The Bill of Fare.--Very, a well-known _Restaurateur_.

[2] The favorite wine of Napoleon.

[3] A celebrated restaurateur.

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ----

"Return!"--no, never, while the withering hand Of bigot power is on that hapless land; While, for the faith my fathers held to G.o.d, Even in the fields where free those fathers trod, I am proscribed, and--like the spot left bare In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there[1]-- On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!

No!--let _them_ stay, who in their country's pangs See naught but food for factions and harangues; Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores: Still let your . . . .[2]

Still hope and suffer, all who can!--but I, Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.

But whither?--every where the scourge pursues-- Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views, In the bright, broken hopes of all his race, Countless reflections of the Oppressor's face.

Every where gallant hearts and spirits true, Are served up victims to the vile and few; While England, every where--the general foe Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow-- Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.

Oh, England! could such poor revenge atone For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest one; Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate, To hear his curses on such barbarous sway Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless way;-- Could _this_ content him, every lip he meets Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets; Were _this_ his luxury, never is thy name p.r.o.nounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame; Hears maledictions ring from every side Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride, Which vaunts its own and scorns all rights beside; That low and desperate envy which to blast A neighbor's blessings risks the few thou hast;-- That monster, Self, too gross to be concealed, Which ever lurks behind thy proffered s.h.i.+eld;-- That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need, Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed, Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gained, Back to his masters, ready gagged and chained!

Worthy a.s.sociate of that band of Kings, That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood, And fan her into dreams of promist good, Of hope, of freedom--but to drain her blood!

If _thus_ to hear thee branded be a bliss That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this, That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart, Made thee the fallen and tarnisht thing thou art; That, as the centaur gave the infected vest In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast, We sent thee CASTLEREAGH:--as heaps of dead Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread, So hath our land breathed out, thy fame to dim, Thy strength to waste and rot thee soul and limb, Her worst infections all condensed in him!

When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when Will that redeeming day s.h.i.+ne out on men, That shall behold them rise, erect and free As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!

When Reason shall no longer blindly bow To the vile paG.o.d things, that o'er her brow, Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now; Nor Conquest dare to desolate G.o.d's earth; Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO'S mirth, Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;-- But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given-- Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!

_When_ will this be?--or, oh! is it, in truth, But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth, In which the Soul, as round her morning springs, 'Twixt sleep and waking, see such dazzling things!

And must the hope, as vain as it is bright, Be all resigned?--and are _they_ only right, Who say this world of thinking souls was made To be by Kings part.i.tioned, truckt and weighed In scales that, ever since the world begun, Have counted millions but as dust to one?

Are _they_ the only wise, who laugh to scorn The rights, the freedom to which man was born?

Who . . . . .

Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power, Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour; Wors.h.i.+p each would-be G.o.d, that o'er them moves, And take the thundering of his bra.s.s for JOVE'S!

If _this_ be wisdom, then farewell, my books, Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye cla.s.sic brooks.

Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair, Of living Truth that now must stagnate there!-- Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light, Instead of Greece and her immortal fight For Liberty which once awaked my strings, Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings, The High Legitimates, the Holy Band, Who, bolder' even than He of Sparta's land, Against whole millions, panting to be free, Would guard the pa.s.s of right line tyranny.

Instead of him, the Athenian bard whose blade Had stood the onset which his pen portrayed, Welcome . . . .

And, ?stead of ARISTIDES--woe the day Such names should mingle!--welcome Castlereagh!

Here break we off, at this unhallowed name.[3]

Like priests of old, when words ill-omened came.

My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell.

Thoughts that . . . .