The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 257

With three times three ill.u.s.trious cheers, Which made the room resound like thunder-- "The REGENT'S Ears, and may he ne'er "From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear "Old paltry _wigs_ to keep them[2] under!"

This touch at our old friends, the Whigs, Made us as merry all as grigs.

In short (I'll thank you not to mention These things again), we get on gayly; And thanks to pension and Suspension, Our little Club increases daily.

CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such, Who don?t as yet full salary touch, Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy Houses and lands, like TOM and I, Of course don?t rank with us _salvators_,[3]

But merely serve the Club as waiters, Like Knights, too, we've our _collar_ days, (For _us_, I own, an awkward phrase,) When, in our new costume adorned,-- The REGENT'S buff-and-blue coats _turned_-- We have the honor to give dinners To the chief Rats in upper stations: Your WEMYS, VAUGHANS,--half-fledged sinners, Who shame us by their imitations; Who turn, 'tis true--but what of that?

Give me the useful _peaching_ Rat; _Not_ things as mute as Punch, when bought, Whose wooden heads are all they've brought; Who, false enough to s.h.i.+rk their friends, But too faint-hearted to betray, Are, after all their twists and bends, But souls in Limbo, d.a.m.ned half way.

No, no, we n.o.bler vermin are A _genus_ useful as we're rare; Midst all the things miraculous Of which your natural histories brag, The rarest must be Rats like us, Who _let the cat out of the bag_.

Yet still these Tyros in the cause Deserve, I own, no small applause; And they're by us received and treated With all due honors--only seated In the inverse scale of their reward, The merely _promised_ next my Lord; Small pensions then, and so on, down, Rat after rat, they graduate Thro' job, red ribbon and silk gown, To Chancellors.h.i.+p and Marquisate.

This serves to nurse the ratting spirit; The less the bribe the more the merit.

Our music's good, you may be sure; My Lord, you know, 's an amateur[4]-- Takes every part with perfect ease, Tho' to the Base by nature suited; And, formed for all, as best may please, For whips and bolts, or chords and keys, Turns from his victims to his glees, And has them both well _executed_.[5]

HERTFORD, who, tho' no Rat himself, Delights in all such liberal arts, Drinks largely to the House of Guelph, And superintends the _Corni_ parts.

While CANNING, who'd be _first_ by choice, Consents to take an _under_ voice; And GRAVES,[6] who well that signal knows, Watches the _Volti Subitos_.[7]

In short, as I've already hinted, We take of late prodigiously; But as our Club is somewhat stinted For _Gentlemen_, like TOM and me, We'll take it kind if you'll provide A few _Squireens_[8] from t'other side;-- Some of those loyal, cunning elves (We often tell the tale with laughter), Who used to hide the pikes themselves, Then hang the fools who found them after.

I doubt not you could find us, too, Some Orange Parsons that might do: Among the rest, we've heard of one, The Reverend--something--HAMILTON, Who stuft a figure of himself (Delicious thought!) and had it shot at, To bring some Papists to the shelf, That couldn't otherwise be got at-- If _he_'ll but join the a.s.sociation, We'll vote him in by acclamation.

And now, my brother, guide and friend, This somewhat tedious scrawl must end.

I've gone into this long detail, Because I saw your nerves were shaken With anxious fears lest I should fail In this new, _loyal_, course I've taken.

But, bless your heart! you need not doubt-- We FUDGES know what we're about.

Look round and say if you can see A much more thriving family.

There's JACK, the Doctor--night and day Hundreds of patients so besiege him, You'd swear that all the rich and gay Fell sick on purpose to oblige him.

And while they think, the precious ninnies, He's counting o'er their pulse so steady, The rogue but counts how many guineas He's fobbed for that day's work already.

I'll ne'er forget the old maid's alarm, When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he Said, as he dropt her shrivelled arm, "d.a.m.ned bad this morning--only thirty!"

Your dowagers, too, every one, So generous are, when they call _him_ in, That he might now retire upon The rheumatisms of three old women.

Then whatsoe'er your ailments are, He can so learnedly explain ye'em-- Your cold of course is a _catarrh_, Your headache is a _hemi-cranium_:-- His skill too in young ladies' lungs, The grace with which, most mild of men, He begs them to put out their tongues.

Then bids them--put them in again; In short, there's nothing now like JACK!-- Take all your doctors great and small, Of present times and ages back, Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.

So much for physic--then, in law too, Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow; Not one of us gives more eclat to The immortal name of FUDGE than thou.

Not to expatiate on the art With which you played the patriot's part, Till something good and snug should offer;-- Like one, who, by the way he acts The _enlightening_ part of candle-snuffer, The manager's keen eye attracts, And is promoted thence by him To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!-- _Who_ shall describe thy powers of face, Thy well-fed zeal in every case, Or wrong or right--but ten times warmer (As suits thy calling) in the former-- Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight In puzzling all that's clear and right, Which, tho' conspicuous in thy youth, Improves so with a wig and band on, That all thy pride's to waylay Truth, And leave her not a leg to stand on.

Thy patent prime morality,-- Thy cases cited from the Bible-- Thy candor when it falls to thee To help in trouncing for a libel;-- "G.o.d knows, I, from my soul, profess "To hate all bigots and be-nighters!

"G.o.d knows, I love, to even excess, "The sacred Freedom of the Press, "My only aim's to--crush the writers."

These are the virtues, TIM, that draw The briefs into thy bag so fast; And these, oh TIM--if Law be Law-- Will raise thee to the Bench at last.

I blush to see this letter's length-- But 'twas my wish to prove to thee How full of hope, and wealth, and strength, Are all our precious family.

And, should affairs go on as pleasant As, thank the Fates, they do at present-- Should we but still enjoy the sway Of SIDMOUTH and of CASTLEREAGH, I hope, ere long, to see the day When England's wisest statesmen, judges, Lawyers, peers, will all be--FUDGES!

Good-by--my paper's out so nearly, I've room only for Yours sincerely.

[1] Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr. Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.

[2] It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavored to conceal these appendages. The n.o.ble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, and the Prince Regent together.

[3] Mr. Fudge and his friends ought to go by this name--as the man who, some years since, saved the late Right Hon. George Rose from drowning, was ever after called _Salvator Rosa_.

[4] His Lords.h.i.+p, during one of the busiest periods of his Ministerial career, took lessons three times a week from a celebrated music-master, in glee-singing.

[5] How amply these two propensities of the n.o.ble Lord would have been gratified among that ancient people of Etruria, who, as Aristotle tells us, used to whip their slaves once a year to the sound of flutes!

[6] The rapidity of this n.o.ble Lord's transformation, at the same instant, into a Lord of the Bed-chamber and an opponent of the Catholic Claims, was truly miraculous.

[7] _Turn instantly_--a frequent direction in music-books.

[8] The Irish diminutive of _Squire_.

LETTER VII.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO--.

Before we sketch the Present--let us cast A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength, Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;-- When, loosed as if by magic from a chain That seemed like Fate's the world was free again, And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight, The cause of Kings, _for once_, the cause of Right;-- Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those Who sighed for justice--liberty--repose, And hoped the fall of _one_ great vulture's nest Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.

All then was bright with promise;--Kings began To own a sympathy with suffering Man, And man was grateful; Patriots of the South Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth, And heard, like accents thawed in Northern air, Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!

Who did not hope, in that triumphant time, When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime, Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven lookt on;-- _Who_ did not hope the l.u.s.t of spoil was gone; That that rapacious spirit, which had played The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid; And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past, Would blush and deviate into right at last?

But no--the hearts, that nurst a hope so fair, Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare; Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things, The only _quite_ untameable are Kings!

Scarce had they met when, to its nature true, The instinct of their race broke out anew; Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain, And "Rapine! rapine!" was the cry again.

How quick they carved their victims, and how well, Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;- Let all the human stock that, day by day, Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truckt away,-- The million souls that, in the face of heaven, Were split to fractions, bartered, sold or given To swell some despot Power, too huge before, And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.

How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;-- Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;-- Her Press enthralled--her Reason mockt again With all the monkery it had spurned in vain; Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own He thankt not France but England for his throne; Her triumphs cast into the shade by those, Who had grown old among her bitterest foes, And now returned, beneath her conqueror's s.h.i.+elds, Unblus.h.i.+ng slaves! to claim her heroes' fields; To tread down every trophy of her fame, And curse that glory which to them was shame!-- Let these--let all the d.a.m.ning deeds, that then Were dared thro' Europe, cry aloud to men, With voice like that of cras.h.i.+ng ice that rings Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings; And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare The helpless victim for whose blood they l.u.s.ted, Then and then only monarchs may be trusted.

It could not last--these horrors _could_ not last-- France would herself have risen in might to cast The insulters off--and oh! that then as now, Chained to some distant islet's rocky brow, NAPOLEON ne'er had come to force, to blight, Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;-- To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame, And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name;-- To rush into the list, unaskt, alone, And make the stake of _all_ the game of _one_!

Then would the world have seen again what power A people can put forth in Freedom's hour; Then would the fire of France once more have blazed;-- For every single sword, reluctant raised In the stale cause of an oppressive throne, Millions would then have leaped forth in her own; And never, never had the unholy stain Of Bourbon feet disgraced her sh.o.r.es again.

But fate decreed not so--the Imperial Bird, That, in his neighboring cage, unfeared, unstirred, Had seemed to sleep with head beneath his wing, Yet watched the moment for a daring spring;-- Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made His own transgressions whiten in their shade; Well might he hope a world thus trampled o'er By clumsy tyrants would be his once more:-- Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light, From steeple on to steeple[1] winged his flight, With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne From which a Royal craven just had flown; And resting there, as in his eyry, furled Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

What was your fury then, ye crowned array, Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth, By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth!

Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,-- "a.s.sa.s.sinate, who will--enchain, who can, "The vile, the faithless, outlawed, lowborn man!"

"Faithless!"--and this from _you_--from _you_, forsooth, Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth, Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried; Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side; Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known, Well might ye claim the craft as all your own, And lash your lordly tails and fume to see Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!

Yes--yes--to you alone did it belong To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong,-- The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state; But let some upstart dare to soar so high In Kingly craft, and "outlaw" is the cry!

What, tho' long years of mutual treachery Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves With ghosts of treaties, murdered 'mong yourselves; Tho' each by turns was knave and dupe--what then?

A holy League would set all straight again; Like JUNO'S virtue, which a dip or two In some blest fountain made as good as new!

Most faithful Russia--faithful to whoe'er Could plunder best and give him amplest share; Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends, For want of _foes_ to rob, made free with _friends_,[2]

And, deepening still by amiable gradations, When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations![3]

Most mild and saintly Prussia--steeped to the ears In persecuted Poland's blood and tears, And now, with all her harpy wings outspread O'er severed Saxony's devoted head!

Pure Austria too--whose history naught repeats But broken leagues and subsidized defeats; Whose faith, as Prince, extinguisht Venice shows, Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows!

And thou, oh England--who, tho' once as shy As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy, Art now _broke in_, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH, In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits The escape from Elba frightened into fits;-- Such were the saints, who doomed NAPOLEON'S life, In virtuous frenzy, to the a.s.sa.s.sin's knife.

Disgusting crew!--_who_ would not gladly fly To open, downright, bold-faced tyranny, To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie, From the false, juggling craft of men like these, Their canting crimes and varnisht villanies;-- These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast Of faith and honor, when they've stained them most; From whose affection men should shrink as loath As from their hate, for they'll be fleeced by both; Who, even while plundering, forge Religion's name To frank their spoil, and without fear or shame Call down the Holy Trinity[4] to bless Part.i.tion leagues and deeds of devilishness!

But hold--enough--soon would this swell of rage O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;-- So, here I pause--farewell--another day, Return we to those Lords of prayer and prey, Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine, Deserve a lash--oh! weightier far than mine!