The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 191

As to the rest, they're free to do Whate'er their fancy prompts them to, Provided they make nothing of it Towards rank or honor, power or profit; Which things we naturally expect, Belong to US, the Establisht sect, Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!) The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.

The same mild views of Toleration Inspire, I find, this b.u.t.toned nation, Whose Papists (full as given to rogue, And only Sunnites with a brogue) Fare just as well, with all their fuss, As rascal Sunnites do with us.

The tender Gazel I enclose Is for my love, my Syrian Rose-- Take it when night begins to fall, And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,-- That hour the happiest and the last?

Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn To summer bees at break of morn, Not half so sweet, thro' dale and dell, To Camels' ears the tinkling bell, As is the soothing memory Of that one precious hour to me.

How can we live, so far apart?

Oh! why not rather, heart to heart, United live and die-- Like those sweet birds, that fly together, With feather always touching feather, Linkt by a hook and eye![5]

[1] I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in time to a.s.sist the Prince and Mr. Leckie in their new Oriental Plan of Reform.--See the second of these letters.--How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.

[2] Sunnites and s.h.i.+tes are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The _Sunni_ is the established sect in Turkey, and the _s.h.i.+a_ in Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of s.h.i.+te Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

[3] "In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs," etc.--_Forster's Voyage_.

[4] "The s.h.i.+tes wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination."--_Mariti_.

[5] This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the _Juftak_, of which I find the following account in Richardson:--"A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together."

LETTER VII.

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.--look it thro'-- Very sorry--but can't undertake--'twouldn't do.

Clever work, Sir!--would _get up_ prodigiously well-- Its only defect is--it never would sell.

And tho' _Statesmen_ may glory in being _unbought_, In an _Author_ 'tis not so desirable thought.

Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read-- Tho' the _gold_ of Good-sense and Wit's _small-change_ are fled, Yet the paper we Publishers pa.s.s, in their stead, Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it) Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it!

However, Sir--if you're for trying again, And at somewhat that's vendible--we are your men.

Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately, The Trade is in want of a _Traveller_ greatly-- No job, Sir, more easy--your _Country_ once planned, A month aboard s.h.i.+p and a fortnight on land Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell-- And a lick at the Papists is _sure_ to sell well.

Or--supposing you've nothing _original_ in you-- Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you, You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia![2]

(Mind--_not_ to her _dinners_--a _second-hand_ Muse Mustn't think of aspiring to _mess_ with the _Blues_.) Or--in case nothing else in this world you can do-- The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not _review_!

Should you feel any touch of _poetical_ glow, We've a Scheme to suggest--Mr. Scott, you must know, (Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for _the Row_.[3]) Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown, Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town; And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay) Means to _do_ all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.

Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him) To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to _meet_ him; Who by means of quick proofs--no revises--long coaches-- May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.

Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.

Such, Sir, is our plan--if you're up to the freak, 'Tis a match! and we'll put you _in training_ next week.

At present, no more--in reply to this Letter, A line will oblige very much Yours, _et cetera_.

_Temple of the Muses_.

[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc.

[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have pa.s.sed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghams.h.i.+re, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

[3] Paternoster Row.

LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO ---- SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.

Come to our Fete and bring with thee Thy newest, best embroidery.

Come to our Fete and show again That pea-green coat, thou pink of men, Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it; When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"-- When Cits came wondering from the East And thought thee Poet Pye _at least_!

Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week For looking pale,) with paly cheek; Tho' more we love thy roseate days, When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze Full o'er thy face and amply spread, Tips even thy whisker-tops with red-- Like the last tints of dying Day That o'er some darkling grove delay.

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander, (That lace, like Harry Alexander, Too precious to be washt,) thy _rings_, Thy seals--in short, thy prettiest things!

Put all thy wardrobe's glories on, And yield in frogs and fringe to none But the great Regent's self alone; Who--by particular desire-- _For that night only_, means to hire A dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.[1]

Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents!

Born for each other's fond allegiance!

_Both_ gay Lotharios--both good dressers-- Of serious Farce _both_ learned Professors-- _Both_ circled round, for use or show, With c.o.c.k's combs, wheresoe'er they go![2]

Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore!

It takes to chalk a ball-room floor-- Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day!

It takes to dance that chalk away.[3]

The Ball-room opens--far and nigh Comets and suns beneath us lie; O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk, And the floor seems one sky of chalk!

But soon shall fade that bright deceit, When many a maid, with busy feet That sparkle in the l.u.s.tre's ray, O'er the white path shall bound and play Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:-- With every step a star hath fled, And suns grow dim beneath their tread, So pa.s.seth life--(thus Scott would write, And spinsters read him with delight,)-- Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on, Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!

But, hang this long digressive flight!-- I meant to say, thou'lt see that night What falsehood rankles in their hearts, Who say the Prince neglects the arts-- Neglects the arts?--no, Strahlweg,[4] no; _Thy_ Cupids answer "'tis not so;"

And every floor that night shall tell How quick thou daubest and how well.

s.h.i.+ne as thou mayst in French vermilion, Thou'rt _best_ beneath a French cotillion; And still comest off, whate'er thy faults, With _flying colors_ in a Waltz.

Nor needest thou mourn the transient date To thy best works a.s.signed by fate.

While _some chef-d'oeuvres_ live to weary one, _Thine_ boast a short life and a merry one; Their hour of glory past and gone With "Molly put the kettle on!"[5]

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf Of paper left--so must be brief.

This festive Fete, in fact, will be The former Fete's _facsimile_;[6]

The same long Masquerade of Rooms, All trickt up in such odd costumes, (These, Porter,[7] are thy glorious works!) You'd swear Egyptians, Moors and Turks, Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice, Had clubbed to raise a Pic-Nic Palace; And each to make the olio pleasant Had sent a State-Room as a present.