The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 245

CHURCH EXTENSION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

Sir--A well-known cla.s.sical traveller, while employed in exploring, some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a very ancient bark ma.n.u.script, which has turned out, on examination, to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper;--a newspaper published, as you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great Shrine-Extender,[1] flourished.

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

_Second edition_.

Important event for the rich and religious!

Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen Square;-- Church Extension, their object,--the excitement prodigious;-- Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair!

_Third edition_.

The Chairman still up, when our devil came away; Having prefaced his speech with the usual state prayer, That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day, Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care.

Being askt by some low, unestablisht divines, "When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?"

He manfully answered, "Let _us_ build the shrines,[2]

"And we care not if flocks are found for them or not."

He then added--to show that the Silversmiths' Guild Were above all confined and intolerant views-- "Only _pay_ thro' the nose to the altars we build, "You may _pray_ thro' the nose to what altars you choose."

This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip (Tho' a tolerance mixt with due taste for the till)-- So much charmed all the holders of scriptural scrip, That their shouts of "Hear!" "Hear!" are re-echoing still.

_Fourth edition_.

Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus Are going dog-cheap--may be had for a rebus.

Old Dian's, as usual, outsell all the rest;-- But Venus's also are much in request.

[1] "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen: whom he called together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth[...to be completed...

[2] The "shrines" are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples.

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare, Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to _touch_ there, We extract for our readers the intelligence given, In our latest accounts from that _ci-devant_ Heaven-- That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state Old G.o.d-heads and nod-heads now long out of date.

Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er, Seems to find immortality rather a bore; Tho' he still asks for news of earth's capers and crimes, And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, _the Times_.

He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-_peckt_ are, And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration, And packt off to earth on a _puff_ speculation.

The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim, Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him.

So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags.

Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the _Mags_; Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in't, From which men could guess that the G.o.d had a finger in't.

There are other small facts, well deserving attention, Of which our Olympic despatches make mention.

Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege, Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge.

"What, the Irish!" he cried--"those I lookt to the most!

"If they give up the _spirit_, I give up the ghost:"

While Momus, who used of the G.o.ds to make fun, Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none!

But these changes, tho' curious, are all a mere farce Compared to the new "_casus belli_" of Mars, Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet, Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot!

In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow, Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:"

But the joke wouldn't take--the whole world had got wiser; Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser; And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot, Without very well knowing for whom or for what.

The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing, Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King; While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain, n.o.body's left to fight _with_, but Lord Cardigan.

'Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy Old Mars has been made by what's now on the _tapis_; How much it delights him to see the French rally, In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali; Well knowing that Satan himself could not find A confection of mischief much more to his mind Than the old _Bonnet Rouge_ and the Bashaw combined.

Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were attackers, Whatever their cause, that they didn?t find backers; While any slight care for Humanity's woes May be soothed by that "_Art Diplomatique_," which shows How to come in the most approved method to blows.

This is all for to-day--whether Mars is much vext At his friend Thiers's exit, we'll know by our next.

THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of s.p.a.ce, Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny; And poor human life runs the same sort of race, Being sad on one side--on the other side, funny.

Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie, To weep o'er the woes of Macready;--but scarce Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye, When lo! we're all laughing in fits at the Farce.

And still let us laugh--preach the world as it may-- Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow; Heroics are very grand things in their way, But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.

For instance, what sermon on human affairs Could equal the scene that took place t'other day 'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs-- The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay G.o.d, whom the Gentiles supplied, And whose worship not even among Christians declines, In our senate thou'st languisht since Sheridan died, But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits, And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at!

Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits, Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave-- A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read; While he _laughs_, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave, We shall then think the Church is in danger _indeed_.

Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing To teach _other_ bishops to "seek the right way;"[1]

And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing, Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.