The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 223

Little Maids of the Mill, who themselves but ill-fed, Are obliged, 'mong their other benevolent cares, To "keep feeding the scribblers,"[1]--and better, 'tis said, Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs.

All this is now o'er and so dismal _my_ loss is, So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the throng, That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process), To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.

[1] One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.

THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

_ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator_.

OVID.

The Ghost of Miltiades came at night, And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite, And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame, "If ever the sound of Marathon's name Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow, "Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"

The Benthamite yawning left his bed-- Away to the Stock Exchange he sped, And he found the Scrip of Greece so high, That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye, And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see, For never was Greek more Greek than he!

And still as the premium higher went, His ecstasy rose--so much _per cent_.

(As we see in a gla.s.s that tells the weather The heat and the _silver_ rise together,) And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip, While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!"

The Ghost of Miltiades came again;-- He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain, For his soul was glad at that patriot strain; (And poor, dear ghost--how little he knew The jobs and the tricks of the Philh.e.l.lene crew!) "Blessings and thanks!" was all he said, Then melting away like a night-dream fled!

The Benthamite hears--amazed that ghosts Could be such fools--and away he posts, A patriot still? Ah no, ah no-- G.o.ddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low, And warm and fond as thy lovers are, Thou triest their pa.s.sion, when under _par_, The Benthamite's ardor fast decays, By turns he weeps and swears and prays.

And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross, Ere _he_ had been forced to sell at a loss.

They quote him the Stock of various nations, But, spite of his cla.s.sic a.s.sociations, Lord! how he loathes the Greek _quotations_!

"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?"

Is now the theme of the patriot's lip, As he runs to tell how hard his lot is To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis, And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake, "Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break "Those dark, unholy _bonds_ of thine-- "If you'll only consent to buy up _mine_!"

The Ghost of Miltiades came once more;-- His brow like the night was lowering o'er, And he said, with a look that flasht dismay, "Of Liberty's foes the worst are they, "Who turn to a trade her cause divine, "And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!"

Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight, Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite, Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry-- And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry!

ALARMING INTELLIGENCE!

REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY--ONE _GALT_ AT THE HEAD OF IT.

G.o.d preserve us!--there's nothing now safe from a.s.sault;-- Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer; And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. _Galt_ Has declared open war against English and Grammar!

He had long been suspected of some such design, And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at, Had lately 'mong Colburn's troops of _the line_ (The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.

There schooled, with a rabble of words at command, Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance.

He at length against Syntax has taken his stand, And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.

Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford: In the mean time the danger most imminent grows, He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord, And whom he'll _next_ murder the Lord only knows.

_Wednesday evening_.

Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene; Tho' the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection, Has seized a great Powder--no, Puff Magazine, And the explosions are dreadful in every direction.

What his meaning exactly is, n.o.body knows, As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration) Of lyrical "ichor,"[1] "gelatinous" prose,[2]

And a mixture called amber immortalization.[3]

_Now_, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet, Seated high "among rattlings" and churning a sonnet;[4]

_Now_, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet, With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it![5]

We shudder in tracing these terrible lines; Something bad they must mean, tho' we can't make it out; For whate'er may be guessed of Galt's secret designs, That they're all _Anti_-English no Christian can doubt.

[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions."--GALT'S _Life of Byron_.

[2] "The gelatinous character of their effusions." _Ibid_.

[3] "The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization."-- _Ibid_.

[4] "Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate melody."--_Ibid_.

[5] "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."-- _Ibid_.

RESOLUTIONS

Pa.s.sED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.

Resolved--to stick to every particle Of every Creed and every Article; Reforming naught, or great or little, We'll stanchly stand by every t.i.ttle, And scorn the swallow of that soul Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.[1]

Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius In d.a.m.ning souls is rather s.p.a.cious-- Tho' wide and far his curses fall, Our Church "hath stomach for them all;"

And those who're not content with such, May e'en be d.a.m.ned ten times as much.

Resolved--such liberal souls are we-- Tho' hating Nonconformity, We yet believe the cash no worse is That comes from Nonconformist purses.

Indifferent _whence_ the money reaches The pockets of our reverend breeches, To us the Jumper's jingling penny c.h.i.n.ks with a tone as sweet as any; And even our old friends Yea and Nay May thro' the nose for ever pray, If _also_ thro' the nose they'll pay.

Resolved that Hooper,[2] Latimer,[3]

And Cranmer,[4] all extremely err, In taking such a low-bred view Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:-- All owing to the fact, poor men, That Mother Church was modest then, Nor knew what golden eggs her goose, The Public, would in time produce.

One Pisgah peep at modern Durham To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.

Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords Whose income just enough affords To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey, Are told by Antiquarians prosy How ancient Bishops cut up theirs, Giving the poor the largest shares-- Our answer is, in one short word, We think it pious but absurd.

Those good men made the world their debtor, But we, the Church reformed, know better; And taking all that all can pay, Balance the account the other way.