The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 227

P. P.

[1] In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lords.h.i.+p in 1832.

LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA

--_in Metii decenaat Judicis aures_.

HORAT.

As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay, Revolving much his own renown, And hoping to add thereto a ray By putting duets and anthems down,

Sudden a strain of choral sounds Mellifluous o'er his senses stole; Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!"

For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.

Then starting up he saw a sight That well might shock so learned a snorer-- Saint Cecilia robed in light With a portable organ slung before her.

And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings, Who, his Lords.h.i.+p feared, might tire of flitting, So begged they'd sit--but ah! poor things, They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.

"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns, "And indeed that musical snore betrayed you, "Myself and my choir of cherubims "Are come for a while to serenade you."

In vain did the horrified Henley say "'Twas all a mistake--she was misdirected;"

And point to a concert over the way Where fiddlers and angels were expected.

In vain--the Saint could see in his looks (She civilly said) much tuneful lore; So at once all opened their music-books, And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.

All night duets, terzets, quartets, Nay, long quintets most dire to hear; Ay, and old motets and canzonets And glees in sets kept boring his ear.

He tried to sleep--but it wouldn't do; So loud they squalled, he _must_ attend to 'em.

Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew Were like themselves and had no end to 'em.

Oh judgment dire on judges bold, Who meddle with music's sacred strains!

Judge Midas tried the same of old And was punisht like Henley for his pains.

But worse on the modern judge, alas!

Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne; For Midas was given the ears of an a.s.s, While Henley is doomed to keep his own!

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.[1]

1830.

Missing or lost, last Sunday night, A Waterloo coin whereon was traced The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright, Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.

The metal thereof is rough and hard, And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with bra.s.s; But it bears the stamp of Fame's award, And thro' all Posterity's hands will pa.s.s.

_How_ it was lost G.o.d only knows, But certain _City_ thieves, they say, Broke in on the owner's evening doze, And filched this "gift of G.o.ds" away!

One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect, If we hadn't that evening chanced to see, At the robbed man's door a _Mare_ elect With an a.s.s to keep her company.

Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows, Is begged to state all facts about it, As the owner can't well face his foes, Nor even his friends just now without it.

And if Sir Clod will bring it back, Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able, He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2]

That's left in old King George's stable.

[1] Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of dining with the Lord Mayor.

[2] Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least conspicuous.

MISSING.

Carlton Terrace, 1832.

Whereas, Lord ---- de ---- Left his home last Sat.u.r.day, And, tho' inquired for round and round Thro' certain purlieus, can't be found; And whereas, none can solve our queries As to where this virtuous Peer is, Notice is hereby given that all May forthwith to inquiring fall, As, once the thing's well set about, No doubt but we shall hunt him out.

His Lords.h.i.+p's mind, of late, they say, Hath been in an uneasy way, Himself and colleagues not being let To climb into the Cabinet, To settle England's state affairs, Hath much, it seems, _un_settled theirs; And chief to this stray Plenipo Hath been a most distressing blow.

Already,-certain to receive a Well-paid mission to the Neva, And be the bearer of kind words To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,- To fit himself for free discussion, His Lords.h.i.+p had been learning Russian; And all so natural to him were The accents of the Northern bear, That while his tones were in your ear, you Might swear you were in sweet Siberia.

And still, poor Peer, to old and young, He goes on raving in that tongue; Tells you how much you would enjoy a Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;[1]

Talks of such places by the score on As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,[2]

And swears (for he at nothing sticks) That Russia swarms with Raskolniks, Tho' _one_ such Nick, G.o.d knows, must be A more than ample quant.i.ty.

Such are the marks by which to know This strayed or stolen Plenipo; And whosoever brings or sends The unhappy statesman to his friends On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks, And--any paper but the Bank's.

P.S.--Some think the disappearance Of this our diplomatic Peer hence Is for the purpose of reviewing, _In person_, what dear Mig is doing, So as to 'scape all tell-tale letters 'Bout Beresford, and such abetters,-- The only "wretches" for whose aid[3]

Letters seem _not_ to have been made.

[1] In the Government of Perm.

[2] Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.