The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 239

It is true, we've among us some peers of the past, Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast-- Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising With speed that to _us_, old conserves, is surprising.

Conserves, in whom--potted, for grandmamma uses-- 'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.

'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement, Even _our_ House, G.o.d help it, is doomed to improvement, And all its live furniture, n.o.bly descended But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.

With _movables_ 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham, No wonder even _fixtures_ should learn to bestir 'em; And distant, ye G.o.ds, be that terrible day, When--as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say, Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm-- So _ours_ may be whipt off, some night, by Reform; And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air, Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear, Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky, Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by,"

While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians, Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans.

[1] The _Casa Santa_, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.

THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Oh, have you heard what hapt of late?

If not, come lend an ear, While sad I state the piteous fate Of the Reverend Pamphleteer.

All praised his skilful jockeyship, Loud rung the Tory cheer, While away, away, with spur and whip, Went the Reverend Pamphleteer.

The nag he rode--how _could_ it err?

'Twas the same that took, last year, That wonderful jump to Exeter With the Reverend Pamphleteer.

Set a beggar on horseback, wise men say, The course he will take is clear: And in _that_ direction lay the way Of the Reverend Pamphleteer,

"Stop, stop," said Truth, but vain her cry-- Left far away in the rear, She heard but the usual gay "Good-by"

From her faithless Pamphleteer.

You may talk of the jumps of Homer's G.o.ds, When cantering o'er our sphere-- I'd back for a _bounce_, 'gainst any odds, This Reverend Pamphleteer.

But ah! what tumbles a jockey hath!

In the midst of his career, A file of the _Times_ lay right in the path Of the headlong Pamphleteer.

Whether he tript or shyed thereat, Doth not so clear appear: But down he came, as his sermons flat-- This Reverend Pamphleteer!

Lord King himself could scarce desire To see a spiritual Peer Fall much more dead, in the dirt and mire, Than did this Pamphleteer.

Yet pitying parsons many a day Shall visit his silent bier, And, thinking the while of Stanhope, say "Poor dear old Pamphleteer!

"He has finisht at last his busy span, "And now _lies coolly_ here-- "As often he did in life, good man, "Good, Reverend Pamphleteer!"

RECENT DIALOGUE.

1825.

A Bishop and a bold dragoon, Both heroes in their way, Did thus, of late, one afternoon, Unto each other say:-- "Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar, "As n.o.body denies "That you a wise logician are, "And I am--otherwise, "'Tis fit that in this question, we "Stick each to his own art-- "That _yours_ should be the sophistry, "And _mine_ the _fighting_ part.

"My creed, I need not tell you, is "Like that of Wellington, "To whom no harlot comes amiss, "Save her of Babylon; "And when we're at a loss for words, "If laughing reasoners flout us, "For lack of sense we'll draw our swords-- "The sole thing sharp about us."--

"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said, "'Tis true for war thou art meant; "And reasoning--bless that dandy head!

"Is not in thy department.

"So leave the argument to me-- "And, when my holy labor "Hath lit the fires of bigotry, "Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre.

"From pulpit and from sentrybox, "We'll make our joint attacks, "I at the head of my _Ca.s.socks_, "And you, of your _Cossacks_.

"So here's your health, my brave huzzar, "My exquisite old fighter-- "Success to bigotry and war, "The musket and the mitre!"

Thus prayed the minister of heaven-- While York, just entering then, Snored out (as if some _Clerk_ had given His nose the cue) "Amen."

THE WELLINGTON SPA.

"And drink _oblivion_ to our woes."

Anna Matilda.

1829.

Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs, 'Tis from _Lethe_ we now our potations must draw; Yon _Lethe_'s a cure for--all possible things, And the doctors have named it the Wellington Spa.

Other physical waters but cure you in part; _One_ cobbles your gout--_t'other_ mends your digestion-- Some settle your stomach, but _this_--bless your heart!-- It will settle for ever your Catholic Question.

Unlike too the potions in fashion at present, This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth, So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant, That patients _forget_ themselves into rude health.

For instance, the inventor--his having once said "He should think himself mad if at _any one's_ call, "He became what he is"--is so purged from his head That he now doesn?t think he's a madman at all.

Of course, for your memories of very long standing-- Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing-- A devil of a dose of the _Lethe_ is wanted.

But even Irish patients can hardly regret An oblivion so much in their own native style, So conveniently planned that, whate'er they forget, They may go on remembering it still all the while!

A CHARACTERLESS

1834.