The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 126

Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?"

Oh I oh! etc.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(_Entering as if to announce the Play_.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night, For the ninth time--oh accents of delight To the poor author's ear, when _three times three_ With a full b.u.mper crowns, his Comedy!

When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken, He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken, And sees his play-bill circulate--alas, The only bill on which his name will pa.s.s!

Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name, While critic eyes the happy cast shall con, And learned ladies spell your _Dram. Person_.

'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends To help my night, and _he_, ye know, has friends.

Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or _parts_, Engaging actors, or engaging hearts, There's nothing like him! wits, at his request.

Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest; Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make, And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake; For him even lawyers talk without a fee, For him (oh friends.h.i.+p) _I_ act tragedy!

In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks Make _boars_ amusing, and put life in _sticks_.

With _such_ a manager we can't but please, Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2]

Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle, Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle; You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners, Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners: And show that, here--howe'er John Bull may doubt-- In all _our_ plays, the Riot-Act's cut out; And, while we skim the cream of many a jest, Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past, At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last; And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods, Die all, die n.o.bly, die like demiG.o.ds!

[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.

[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

[3] The initials of our manager's name.

[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

EXTRACT.

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There s.h.i.+ne some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1]

Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!

There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom--forgive this joyless strain, Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.

But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter; Gay Epilogue will s.h.i.+ne where Prologue fails-- As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why--but time, methinks, hath past More fleet than usual since we parted last.

It seems but like a dream of yesternight.

Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light; And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue Of former joy, we come to kindle new.

Thus ever may the flying moments haste With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste, But deeply print and lingeringly move, When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.

Oh yes, whatever be our gay career, Let this be still the solstice of the year, Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain, And slowly sink to level life again.

[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported Her figure thro' the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.

And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch A pair so sorted could not show, But how refuse?--the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, Are told, betimes, they must consider Love as an auctioneer of features, Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine-- A Palace paved with diamonds all-- And, proud as Lady Gnome to s.h.i.+ne, Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The _lower_ world of course was there, And all the best; but of the _upper_ The sprinkling was but shy and rare,-- A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin, And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp Which accidents from fire were had in;

The chambers were supplied with light By many strange but safe devices; Large fire-flies, such as s.h.i.+ne at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices;--

Musical flint-mills--swiftly played By elfin hands--that, flas.h.i.+ng round, Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, Gave out at once both light and sound.

Bologna stones that drink the sun; And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wildfire run-- Corked up in crystal carefully.