The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 186

When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights, When her foul tyrant sat on Capreae's heights,[9]

Amid his ruffian spies and doomed to death Each n.o.ble name they blasted with their breath,-- Even then, (in mockery of that golden time, When the Republic rose revered, sublime, And her proud sons, diffused from zone to zone, Gave kings to every nation but their own,) Even then the senate and the tribunes stood, Insulting marks, to show how high the flood Of Freedom flowed, in glory's bygone day, And how it ebbed,--for ever ebbed away![10]

Look but around--tho' yet a tyrant's sword Nor haunts our sleep nor glitters o'er our board, Tho' blood be better drawn, by modern quacks, With Treasury leeches than with sword or axe; Yet say, could even a prostrate tribune's power Or a mock senate in Rome's servile hour Insult so much the claims, the rights of man, As doth that fettered mob, that free divan, Of n.o.ble tools and honorable knaves, Of pensioned patriots and privileged slaves;-- That party-colored ma.s.s which naught can warm But rank corruption's heat--whose quickened swarm Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky, Buzz for a period, lay their eggs and die;-- That greedy vampire which from Freedom's tomb Comes forth with all the mimicry of bloom Upon its lifeless cheek and sucks and drains A people's blood to feel its putrid veins!

Thou start'st, my friend, at picture drawn so dark-- "Is there no light?"--thou ask'st--"no lingering spark "Of ancient fire to warm us? Lives there none, "To act a Marvell's part?"[11]--alas! not one.

_To_ place and power all public spirit tends, _In_ place and power all public spirit ends; Like hardy plants that love the air and sky, When _out_, 'twill thrive--but taken _in_, 'twill die!

Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung From Sidney's pen or burned on Fox's tongue, Than upstart Whigs produce each market-night, While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light; While debts at home excite their care for those Which, dire to tell, their much-loved country owes, And loud and upright, till their prize be known, They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own.

But bees on flowers alighting cease their hum-- So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.

And, tho' most base is he who, 'neath the shade Of Freedom's ensign plies corruption's trade, And makes the sacred flag he dares to show His pa.s.sport to the market of her foe, Yet, yet, I own, so venerably dear Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear, That I enjoy them, tho' by traitors sung, And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue.

Nay, when the const.i.tution has expired, I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired To chant old "_Habeas Corpus_" by its side, And ask in purchased ditties why it died?

See yon smooth lord whom nature's plastic pains Would seem to've fas.h.i.+oned for those Eastern reigns When eunuchs flourisht, and such nerveless things As men rejected were the chosen of kings;--[12]

Even _he_, forsooth, (oh fraud, of all the worst!) Dared to a.s.sume the patriot's name at first-- Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes; Thus devils when _first_ raised take pleasing shapes.

But oh, poor Ireland! if revenge be sweet For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit And withering insult--for the Union thrown Into thy bitter cup when that alone Of slavery's draught was wanting[13]--if for this Revenge be sweet, thou _hast_ that daemon's bliss; For sure 'tis more than h.e.l.l's revenge to fee That England trusts the men who've ruined thee:-- That in these awful days when every hour Creates some new or blasts some ancient power, When proud Napoleon like the enchanted s.h.i.+eld Whose light compelled each wondering foe to yield, With baleful l.u.s.tre blinds the brave and free And dazzles Europe into slavery,-- That in this hour when patriot zeal should guide, When Mind should rule and--Fox should _not_ have died, All that devoted England can oppose To enemies made fiends and friends made foes, Is the rank refuse, the despised remains Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains Drove Ireland first to turn with harlot glance Towards other sh.o.r.es and woo the embrace of France;-- Those hacked and tainted tools, so foully fit For the grand artisan of mischief, Pitt, So useless ever but in vile employ, So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy-- Such are the men that guard thy threatened sh.o.r.e, Oh England! sinking England! boast no more.

[1] England began very early to feel the effects of cruelty towards her dependencies. "The severity of her government [says Macpherson]

contributed more to deprive her of the continental dominions of the family of the Plantagenet than the arms of France."--See his _History_, vol.

i.

[2] "By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland in 1691[says Burke], the ruin of the native Irish, and in a great measure, too, of the first races of the English, was completely accomplished. The new English interested was settled with as solid a stability as anything in human affairs can look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of oppression, which were made after the last event, were manifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a conquered people, whom the victors delighted to trample upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke."

Yet this is the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer us for "invaluable blessings," etc.

[3] The drivelling correspondence between James I and his "dog Steenie"

(the Duke of Buckingham), which we find among the Hardwicke Papers, sufficiently shows, if we wanted any such ill.u.s.tration, into what doting, idiotic brains the plan at arbitrary power may enter.

[4] Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a pa.s.sage very frequently quoted, that such a distribution of power as the theory of the British const.i.tution exhibits is merely a subject of bright speculation, "a system more easily praised than practised, and which, even could it happen to exist, would certainly not prove permanent;" and, in truth, a review of England's annals would dispose us to agree with the great historian's remark. For we find that at no period whatever has this balance of the three estates existed; that the n.o.bles predominated till the policy of Henry VII, and his successor reduced their weight by breaking up the feudal system of property; that the power of the Crown became then supreme and absolute, till the bold encroachments of the Commons subverted the fabric altogether; that the alternate ascendency of prerogative and privilege distracted the period which followed the Restoration; and that lastly, the Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an unbounded court- influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne, which every succeeding year increases. So that the vaunted British const.i.tution has never perhaps existed but in mere theory.

[5] The last great wound given to the feudal system was the Act of the 12th of Charles II, which abolished the tenure of knight's service _in capite_, and which Blackstone compares, for its salutary influence upon property, to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in this act we see the effects of that counteracting spirit which has contrived to weaken every effort of the English nation towards liberty.

[6] "They drove so fast [says Wellwood of the ministers of Charles I.], that it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke."--(_Memoirs_ p. 86.)

[7] Among those auxiliaries which the Revolution of 1688 marshalled on the side of the Throne, the bugbear of Popery has not been the least convenient and serviceable. Those unskilful tyrants, Charles and James, instead of profiting by that useful subserviency which has always distinguished the ministers of our religious establishment, were so infatuated as to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power and moreover connected their designs upon the Church so undisguisedly with their attacks upon the Const.i.tution that they identified in the minds of the people the interests of their religion and their liberties. During those times therefore "No Popery" was the watchword of freedom and served to keep the public spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and prerogative.

[8] "It is a scandal [said Sir Charles Sedley in William's reign] that a government so sick at heart as ours is should look so well in the face."

[9] The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to manage all the business of the public: the money was then and long after coined by their authority, and every other public affair received their sanction.

[10] There is something very touching in what Tacitus tells us of the hopes that revived in a few patriot bosoms, when the death of Augustus was near approaching, and the fond expectation with which they already began "_bona libertatis inca.s.sum disserere_."

[11] Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the court during the reign of Charles the Second, and the last member of parliament who, according to the ancient mode, took wages from his const.i.tuents. The Commons have, since then, much changed their pay-masters.

[12] According to Xenophon, the chief circ.u.mstance which recommended these creatures to the service of Eastern princes was the ignominious station they held in society, and the probability of their being, upon this account, more devoted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose notice alone they derived consideration, and in whose favor they might seek refuge from the general contempt of mankind.

[13] Among the many measures, which, since the Revolution, have contributed to increase the influence of the Throne, and to feed up this "Aaron's serpent" of the const.i.tution to its present healthy and respectable magnitude, there have been few more nutritive than the Scotch and Irish Unions.

INTOLERANCE,

A SATIRE.

"This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

ADDISON, _Freeholder_, No. 37.

Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain Her cla.s.sic fingers with the dust profane Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls Which took such freedom once with royal souls,[1]

When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade, And kings were _d.a.m.ned_ as fast as now they're _made_, No, no--let Duigenan search the papal chair For fragrant treasures long forgotten there; And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks, Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale Which wizard Duigenan's gathered sweets exhale.

Enough for me whose heart has learned to scorn Bigots alike in Rome or England born, Who loathe the venom whence-soe'er it springs, From popes or lawyers,[2] pastrycooks or kings,-- Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns, As mirth provokes or indignation burns, As Canning Vapors or as France succeeds, As Hawkesbury proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days, When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays So near a precipice, that men the while Look breathless on and shudder while they smile-- If in such fearful days thou'lt dare to look To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain, While Gifford's tongue and Musgrave's pen remain-- If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot, Whose wrongs tho' blazoned o'er the world they be, Placemen alone are privileged _not_ to see-- Oh! turn awhile, and tho' the shamrock wreathes My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes Of Ireland's slavery and of Ireland's woes Live when the memory of her tyrant foes Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn, Embalmed in hate and canonized by scorn.

When Castlereagh in sleep still more profound Than his own opiate tongue now deals around, Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day Which even _his_ practised hand can't bribe away.

Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now, To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow Smiles that s.h.i.+ne out unconquerably fair Even thro' the blood-marks left by Camden there,--[3]

Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod, And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave, That warms the soul of each insulted slave, Who tired with struggling sinks beneath his lot And seems by all but watchful France forgot--[4]

Thy heart would burn--yes, even thy Pitt.i.te heart Would burn to think that such a blooming part Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms And filled with social souls and vigorous arms, Should be the victim of that canting crew, So smooth, so G.o.dly,--yet so devilish too; Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips, Blood on their hands and Scripture on their lips, Tyrants by creed and tortures by text, Make _this_ life h.e.l.l in honor of the _next_!

Your Redesdales, Percevals,--great, glorious Heaven, If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven, When here I swear by my soul's hope of rest, I'd rather have been born ere man was blest With the pure dawn of Revelation's light, Yes,--rather plunge me back in Pagan night, And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,[5]

Than be the Christian of a faith like this, Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway And in a convert mourns to lose a prey; Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,-- Like Danae's lover mixing G.o.d and gold,[6]-- Corrupts both state and church and makes an oath The knave and atheist's pa.s.sport into both; Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know Nor bliss above nor liberty below, Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear, And lest he 'scape hereafter racks him here!

But no--far other faith, far milder beams Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams; _His_ creed is writ on Mercy's page above, By the pure hands of all-atoning Love; _He_ weeps to see abused Religion twine Round Tyranny's coa.r.s.e brow her wreath divine; And _he_, while round him sects and nations raise To the one G.o.d their varying notes of praise, Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be, That serves to swell the general harmony.[7]

Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright, That filled, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light; While free and s.p.a.cious as that ambient air Which folds our planet in its circling care, The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind.

Last of the great, farewell!--yet _not_ the last-- Tho' Britain's suns.h.i.+ne hour with thee be past, Ierne still one ray of glory gives And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.

[1] The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many mischievous absurdities, was of no little service to the cause of political liberty, by inculcating the right of resistance to tyrants and a.s.serting the will of the people to be the only true fountain of power.

[2] When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the controversy between the Jesuits and the Jansenists, he answered, that "he had been bred a lawyer, and had therefore nothing to do with divinity." It were to be wished that some of our English pettifoggers knew their own fit element as well as Pope Innocent X.

[3] Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland:--"To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome, and well-complexioned, soft-skinned and very nimble, by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this Island is in many respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, 'Nature had regarded with more favorable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.'"

[4] The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British government to persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice: just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, "because," as they say, "the devil has white ones."

[5] In a singular work, written by one Franciscus Collius, "upon the Souls of the Pagans," the author discusses, with much coolness and erudition, all the probable chances of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher might calculate. Consigning to perdition without much difficulty Plato, Socrates, etc., the only sage at whose fate he seems to hesitate is Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and the many miracles which he performed. But having balanced a little his claims and finding reason to father all these miracles on the devil, he at length, in the twenty-fifth chapter, decides upon d.a.m.ning him also.

[6] Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thus condemns the intermixture of religion with the political const.i.tution of a state:--"What purpose [he asks] can it serve, except the baleful purpose of communicating and receiving contamination? Under such an alliance corruption must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the other."

[7] Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the subject of Toleration in a manner much more worthy of themselves and of the cause if they had written in an age less distracted by religious prejudices.