The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 217

I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng Of ghosts came fluttering towards me--blown along, Like c.o.c.kchafers in high autumnal storms, By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff, And puft as--tho' they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand On their lean legs while answering my demand.

"We once were authors"--thus the Sprite, who led This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said-- "Authors of every s.e.x, male, female, neuter, "Who, early smit with love of praise and--_pewter_,[1]

"On C--lb--n's shelves first saw the light of day, "In ---'s puffs exhaled our lives away-- "Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace, "When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease.

"Ah! little knew we then what ills await "Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state; "Bepuft on earth--how loudly Str--t can tell-- "And, dire reward, now doubly puft in h.e.l.l!"

Touched with compa.s.sion for this ghastly crew, Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro'

In mournful prose,--such prose as Rosa's[2] ghost Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast, Sighs thro' the columns of the _Morning Post_,-- Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood Foremost of all that flatulential brood, Singling a _she_-ghost from the party, said, "Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,[3]

"One of our _lettered_ nymphs--excuse the pun-- "Who gained a name on earth by--having none; "And whose initials would immortal be, "Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C.

"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, "Wrapt in his own dead rhymes--fit winding-sheet-- "Still marvels much that not a soul should care "One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'-- "While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew A dandy spectre, puft quite thro' and thro', As tho' his ribs were an AEolian lyre For the whole Row's soft _trade_winds to inspire,) "This modest genius breathed one wish alone, "To have his volume read, himself unknown; "But different far the course his glory took, "All knew the author, and--none read the book.

"Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun, "Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington;-- "In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent, "And now the wind returns the compliment.

"This lady here, the Earl of ---'s sister, "Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister-- "Beg pardon--_Honorable_ Mister Lister, "A gentleman who some weeks since came over "In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover.

"Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey, "Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away-- "Like a torn paper-kite on which the wind "No further purchase for a puff can find."

"And thou, thyself"--here, anxious, I exclaimed-- "Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named."

"Me, Sir!" he blus.h.i.+ng cried--"Ah! there's the rub-- "Know, then--a waiter once at Brooks's Club, "A waiter still I might have long remained, "And long the club-room's jokes and gla.s.ses drained; "But ah! in luckless hour, this last December, "I wrote a book,[4] and Colburn dubbed me 'Member'-- "'Member of Brooks's!'--oh Promethean puff, "To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!

"With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits, "And half-heard jokes, bequeathed, like half-chewed bits, "To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;-- "With such ingredients served up oft before, "But with fresh fudge and fiction garnisht o'er, "I managed for some weeks to dose the town, "Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down; "And ready still even waiters' souls to d.a.m.n, "The Devil but rang his bell, and--here I am;-- "Yes--'Coming _up_, Sir,' once my favorite cry, "Exchanged for 'Coming _down_, Sir,' here am I!"

Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop, When, lo! a breeze--such as from ---'s shop Blows in the vernal hour when puffs prevail, And speeds the _sheets_ and swells the lagging _sale_-- Took the poor waiter rudely in the p.o.o.p, And whirling him and all his grisly group Of literary ghosts--Miss X. Y. Z.-- The nameless author, better known than read-- Sir Jo--the Honorable Mr. Lister, And last, not least, Lord n.o.body's twin-sister-- Blew them, ye G.o.ds, with all their prose and rhymes And sins about them, far into those climes "Where Peter pitched his waistcoat"[5] in old times, Leaving me much in doubt as on I prest, With my great master, thro' this realm unblest, Whether Old Nick or Colburn puffs the best.

[1] The cla.s.sical term for money.

[2] Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside--"_regnat Rosa_"--over its pages.

[3] _Not_ the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

[4] "History of the Clubs of London," announced as by "a Member of Brooks's."

[5]A _Dantesque_ allusion to the old saying "Nine miles beyond h.e.l.l, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S TAIL.[1]

All _in_ again--unlookt for bliss!

Yet, ah! _one_ adjunct still we miss;-- One tender tie, attached so long To the same head, thro' right and wrong.

Why, Bathurst, why didst thou cut off That memorable tail of thine?

Why--as if _one_ was not enough-- Thy pig-tie with thy place resign, And thus at once both _cut_ and _run_?

Alas! my Lord, 'twas not well done, 'Twas not, indeed,--tho' sad at heart, From office and its sweets to part, Yet hopes of coming in again, Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain; But thus to miss that tail of thine, Thro' long, long years our rallying sign-- As if the State and all its powers By tenancy _in tail_ were ours-- To see it thus by scissors fall, _This_ was "the unkindest _cut_ of all!"

It seemed as tho' the ascendant day Of Toryism had past away, And proving Samson's story true, She lost her vigor with her _queue_.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said-- The tail directs them, not the head; Then how could _any_ party fail, That steered its course by Bathurst's tail?

Not Murat's plume thro' Wagram's fight E'er shed such guiding glories from it, As erst in all true Tories sight, Blazed from our old Colonial comet!

If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were, (As Wellington will be anon) Thou mightst have had a tail to spare; But no! alas! thou hadst but one, And _that_--like Troy, or Babylon, A tale of other times--is gone!

Yet--weep ye not, ye Tories true-- Fate has not yet of all bereft us; Though thus deprived of Bathurst's _queue_, We've Ellenborough's _curls_ still left us:-- Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues; Grand, glorious curls, which in debate Surcharged with all a nation's fate, His Lords.h.i.+p shakes, as Homer's G.o.d did,[2]

And oft in thundering talk comes near him; Except that there the _speaker_ nodded And here 'tis only those who hear him.

Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil Of that fat cranium may ye flourish, With plenty of Maca.s.sar oil Thro' many a year your growth to nouris.h.!.+

And ah! should Time too soon unsheath His barbarous shears such locks to sever, Still dear to Tories even in death, Their last loved relics we'll bequeath, A _hair_-loom to our sons for ever.

[1] The n.o.ble Lord, as is well known, cut off this much-respected appendage on his retirement from office some months since.

[2] "Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod."--Pope's _Homer_.

THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.[1]

1838.

See those cherries, how they cover Yonder sunny garden wall;-- Had they not that network over, Thieving birds would eat them all.

So to guard our posts and pensions, Ancient sages wove a net, Thro' whose holes of small dimensions Only _certain_ knaves can get.

Shall we then this network widen; Shall we stretch these sacred holes, Thro' which even already slide in Lots of small dissenting souls?

"G.o.d forbid!" old Testy crieth; "G.o.d forbid!" so echo I; Every ravenous bird that flieth Then would at our cherries fly.

Ope but half an inch or so, And, behold! what bevies break in;-- _Here_ some curst old Popish crow Pops his long and lickerish beak in;

_Here_ sly Arians flock unnumbered, And Socinians, slim and spare, Who with small belief enc.u.mbered Slip in easy anywhere;--

Methodists, of birds the aptest, Where there's _pecking_ going on; And that water-fowl, the Baptist-- All would share our fruits anon;

Every bird of every city, That for years with ceaseless din, Hath reverst the starling's ditty, Singing out "I can't get in."

"G.o.d forbid!" old _Testy_ snivels; "G.o.d forbid!" I echo too; Rather may ten thousand devils Seize the whole voracious crew!

If less costly fruits won't suit 'em, Hips and haws and such like berries, Curse the cormorants! stone 'em, shoot 'em, Anything--to save our cherries.

[1] Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation Acts.