The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 247

But we must not despair--even already Hope sees You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you, Who have boxt the whole compa.s.s of party right thro', And care not one farthing, as all the world knows, So we _but_ raise the wind, from what quarter it blows.

Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare My own small resources with thine to compare: Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.

But, hark, there's a shot!--some parsonic pract.i.tioner?

No--merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner; The Courts having now, with true law erudition, Put even Rebellion itself "in commission."

As seldom, in _this_ way, I'm any man's debtor, I'll just _pay my shot_ and then fold up this letter.

In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks!

Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!

Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres, And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!

[1] Exchequer t.i.the processes, served under a commission of rebellion.--_Chronicle_.

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.[1]

Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more, Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before: For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew, You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do; So ready they're always, when dull we are growing, To set our old concert of discord a-going, While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face, To play in such concert the true _double-base_.

I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning To tire of his course of political sinning, And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past, Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last.

But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides All reform in himself as in most things besides; And, by using _two_ faces thro' life, all allow, Has acquired face sufficient for _any_-thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, My "Lord Harry" himself--who's the leader, we know, Of another red-hot Opposition below-- If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs, We shall soon such a region of devilment make it, That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.

Even already--long life to such Bigwigs, say I, For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die--

He has served our right riotous cause by a speech Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach; As it shows off both _his_ and _my_ merits alike, Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike; Mixes up, with a skill which one can?t but admire, The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire, And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner, Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!

Oh Terry, my man, let this speech _never_ die; Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly; Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered.

Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood, But "_You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;_"

While voices, from sweet Connemara afar, Shall answer, like true _Irish_ echoes, "We are!"

And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it, Still the echoes may quote _Law_ authority for it, And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion So he, in the end, touches cash "for the _opinion_."

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now, Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their __row_.

They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin, They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.

[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred, And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won, And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude, 'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state, Had known what he was--and, content to be _good_, Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be _great_.

So, left thro' their own little orbit to move, His years might have rolled inoffensive away; His children might still have been blest with his love, And England would ne'er have been curst with his sway.

TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE."

_Sir_,--In order to explain the following Fragment, it is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, "FUM, _The Chinese Bird of Royalty_," is a princ.i.p.al ornament.

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

MUM.

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM, Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM, In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?) Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.-- Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation (The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation); Both, full-crawed Legitimates--both, birds of prey, Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way 'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh.

While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea, Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.--are sacred to thee So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton, The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"-- And when, turning, he saw Bishop L--GE, "Zooks, it is."

Quoth the Bird, "Yes--I know him--a Bonze, by his phiz- "And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low "Can be none but our round-about G.o.d-head, fat Fo!"

It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,[1]

Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed, Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye, That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"

But a truce to digression;--these Birds of a feather Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together; (The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for't, His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,) "I say, HUM," says FUM--FUM, of course, spoke Chinese, But, bless you! that's nothing--at Brighton one sees Foreign lingoes and Bishops _translated_ with ease-- "I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now?

"Is it _up_? is it _prime_? is it _spooney_-or how?"

(The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L--E,) "As for us in Pekin"--here, a devil of a din From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin, Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the _Confucius_ of Prose), Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose To the deep, double ba.s.s of the fat Idol's nose.

(_Nota bene_--his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come, In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM, CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug--LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,) The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH.

Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away!

Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby, Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.

[1] In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his Royal Highness.