The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 218

STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTIc.i.p.aTION OF DEFEAT.[1]

1828.

Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong, If we _must_ run the gantlet thro' blood and expense; Or, Goths as ye are, in your mult.i.tude strong, Be content with success and pretend not to sense.

If the words of the wise and the generous are vain, If Truth by the bowstring _must_ yield up her breath, Let Mutes do the office--and spare her the pain Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death.

Chain, persecute, plunder--do all that you will-- But save us, at least, the old womanly lore Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill, Is at once the _two_ instruments, AUGUR[2] and BORE.

Bring legions of Squires--if they'll only be mute-- And array their thick heads against reason and right, Like the Roman of old, of historic repute,[3]

Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight;

Pour out from each corner and hole of the Court Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves, Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter what sort, Have their consciences tackt to their patents and staves.

Catch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings, Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim; With all the base, time-serving _toadies_ of Kings, Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship even him;

And while on the _one_ side each name of renown That illumines and blesses our age is combined; While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down, And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind;

Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other, And, counting of noses the quantum desired, Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's famed mother, "Come forward, my _jewels_"--'tis all that's required.

And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter-- Thus honestly persecute, outlaw and chain; But spare even your victims the torture of laughter, And never, oh never, try _reasoning_ again!

[1] During the discussion of the Catholic question in the House of Commons last session.

[2] This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt _auger_.

[3] Fabius, who sent droves of bullock against the enemy.

ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

BY ONE OF THE BOARD.

1828.

Let other bards to groves repair, Where linnets strain their tuneful throats; Mine be the Woods and Forests where The Treasury pours its sweeter _notes_.

No whispering winds have charms for me, Nor zephyr's balmy sighs I ask; To raise the wind for Royalty Be all our Sylvan zephyr's task!

And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods, And all such vulgar irrigation, Let Gallic rhino thro' our Woods Divert its "course of liquidation."

Ah, surely, Vergil knew full well What Woods and Forests _ought_ to be, When sly, he introduced in h.e.l.l His guinea-plant, his bullion-tree;[1]--

Nor see I why, some future day, When short of cash, we should not send Our Herries down--he knows the way-- To see if Woods in h.e.l.l will _lend_.

Long may ye flourish, sylvan haunts, Beneath whose "_branches_ of expense"

Our gracious King gets all he wants,-- _Except_ a little taste and sense.

Long, in your golden shade reclined.

Like him of fair Armida's bowers, May Wellington some _wood_-nymph find, To cheer his dozenth l.u.s.trum's hours;

To rest from toil the Great Untaught, And soothe the pangs his warlike brain Must suffer, when, unused to thought, It tries to think and--tries in vain.

Oh long may Woods and Forests be Preserved in all their teeming graces, To shelter Tory bards like me Who take delight in Sylvan _places_!

[1] Called by Vergil, botanically, "species _aurifrondentis_."

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.[1]

1828.

"Take back the virgin page."

MOORE'S _Irish Melodies_.

No longer dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy At hearing it said by the Treasury brother, That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my Vesey, And he, the dear, innocent placeman, another.[2]

For lo! what a service we Irish have done thee;-- Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; By St. Patrick, we've scrawled such a lesson upon thee As never was scrawled upon foolscap before.

Come--on with your spectacles, n.o.ble Lord Duke, (Or O'Connell has _green_ ones he haply would lend you,) Read Vesey all o'er (as you _can't_ read a book) And improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send you;

A lesson, in large _Roman_ characters traced, Whose awful impressions from you and your kin Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effaced-- Unless, 'stead of _paper_, you're mere _a.s.ses' skin_.

Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the G.o.ds, Could I risk a translation, you _should_ have a rare one; But pen against sabre is desperate odds, And you, my Lord Duke (as you _hinted_ once), wear one.

Again and again I say, read Vesey o'er;-- You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus That Egypt e'er filled with nonsensical lore, Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us.

All blank as he was, we've returned him on hand, Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes, Whose plain, simple drift if they _won't_ understand, Tho' carest at St. James's, they're fit for St. Luke's.

Talk of leaves of the Sibyls!--more meaning conveyed is In one single leaf such as now we have spelled on, Than e'er hath been uttered by all the old ladies That ever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eldon.