The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 266

_Wednesday_.

_Mem_.--To write to the India Mission Society; And send 20--heavy tax upon piety!

Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast, Making "Company's Christians" perhaps costs the most.

And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown, Having lived in _our_ faith mostly die in their _own_,[1]

Praying hard, at the last, to some G.o.d who, they say, When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2]

Think, how horrid, my dear!--so that all's thrown away; And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price.

Still 'tis cheering to find that we _do_ save a few-- The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo; Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum, While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum.

In this last-mentioned place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em, For once they turn Christians no barber will shave 'em.[3]

To atone for this rather small Heathen amount, Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account.

And tho' to catch Papists, one needn't go so far, Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are; And _now_, when so great of such converts the lack is, _One_ Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.

_Friday_.

Last night had a dream so odd and funny, I cannot resist recording it here.-- Methought that the Genius of Matrimony Before me stood with a joyous leer, Leading a husband in each hand, And both for _me_, which lookt rather queer;-- _One_ I could perfectly understand, But why there were _two_ wasn?t quite so clear.

T'was meant however, I soon could see, To afford me a _choice_--a most excellent plan; And--who should this brace of candidates be, But Messrs. O'Mulligan and Magan:-- A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then, To dream, at once, of _two_ Irishmen!-- That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders (For all this past in the realms of the Blest.) And quite a creature to dazzle beholders; While even O'Mulligan, feathered and drest As an elderly cherub, was looking his best.

Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt As to _which_ of the two I singled out.

But--awful to tell--when, all in dread Of losing so bright a vision's charms, I graspt at Magan, his image fled, Like a mist, away, and I found but the head Of O'Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms!

The Angel had flown to some nest divine.

And the elderly Cherub alone was mine!

Heigho!--it is certain that foolish Magan Either can'tor won?t see that he _might_ be the man; And, perhaps, dear--who knows?--if naught better befall But--O'Mulligan _may_ be the man, after all.

N. B.

Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout, For the special discussion of matters devout;-- Like those _soirees_, at Powerscourt, so justly renowned, For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round; Those theology-routs which the pious Lord Roden, That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in; Where, blessed down-pouring[5]from tea until nine, The subjects lay all in the Prophecy line;-- Then, supper--and then, if for topics hard driven, From thence until bed-time to Satan was given; While Roden, deep read in each topic and tome, On all subjects (especially the last) was _at home_.

[1] Of such relapses we find innumerable instances in the accounts of the Missionaries.

[2] The G.o.d Krishna, one of the incarnations of the G.o.d Vishnu. "One day [says the Bhagavata] Krishna's playfellows complained to Tasuda that he had pilfered and ate their curds."

[3] "Roteen wants shaving; but the barber here will not do it. He is run away lest he should be compelled. He says he will not shave Yesoo Kreest's people."--_Bapt. Mission Society_, vol. ii., p. 498.

[4] In the Reports of the Missionaries, the Roman Catholics are almost always cla.s.sed along with the Heathen.

[5] "About eight o'clock the Lord began to pour down his spirit copiously upon us--for they had all by this time a.s.sembled in my room for the purpose of prayer. This down-pouring continued till about ten o'clock."-- Letter from Mary Campbell to the Rev. John Campbell, of Row, dated Feruicary, April 4, 1830, giving an account of her "miraculous cure."

LETTER VII.

FROM MISS f.a.n.n.y FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ----.

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers, While yet, beneath some northern sky, Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers, They wait the breath of summer hours, To wake to light each diamond eye, And let loose every florid sigh!

Bring me the first-born ocean waves, From out those deep primeval caves, Where from the dawn of Time they've lain-- THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!-- Untaught as yet, young things, to speak The language of their PARENT SEA (Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek), Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek, Round startled isle and wondering peak, They'll thunder loud and long as HE!

Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode, Young fires--

I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom, But, having invoked such a lot of fine things, Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings, Didn?t know _what_ to do with 'em, when I had got 'em.

The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute, Of Past MSS. any new ones to try.

This very night's coach brings my destiny in it-- Decides the great question, to live or to die!

And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no, All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!

You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out The whole secret, at once--I have publisht a book!!!

Yes, an actual Book:--if the marvel you doubt, You have only in last Monday's _Courier_ to look, And you'll find "This day publisht by Simpkins and Co.

A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, ent.i.tled 'Woe Woe!'

By Miss f.a.n.n.y F----, known more commonly so [symbol: hand]."

This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark But may guess at my _writing_ by knowing my _mark_.

How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve, Is itself a "Romaunt" which you'd scarce, dear believe; Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl, Looking out for the Magnet,[1] explain it, dear girl.

Suffice it to say, that one half the expense Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence-- (Tho' "G.o.d knows," as aunt says my humble ambition Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)-- One half the whole cost of the paper and printing, I've managed, to sc.r.a.pe up, this year past, by stinting My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes, Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!

And who, my dear Kitty; would not do the same?

What's _eau de Cologne_ to the sweet breath of fame?

Yards of riband soon end--but the measures of rhyme, Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro' all time.

Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair, While couplets s.h.i.+ne out, but the brighter for wear, And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone, While light-footed lyrics thro' ages trip on.

The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas!

My poor copyright too--into other hands pa.s.s; And my friend, the Head Devil of the "_County Gazette_"

(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet), He who set up in type my first juvenile lays, Is now see up by them for the rest of his days; And while G.o.ds (as my "Heathen Mythology" says) Live on naught but ambrosia, _his_ lot how much sweeter To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!

As for _puffing_--that first of all literary boons, And essential alike both to bards and balloons, As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;-- In _this_ respect, naught could more prosperous befall; As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)

Knows the whole would of critics--the _hypers_ and all.

I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme, Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time; As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics, That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.

But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town-- How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.

That awful _Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum_, All full of my book--I shall sink when I see 'em.

And then the great point--whether Simpkins and Co.

Are actually pleased with their bargain or no!--

_Five o'clock_.

All's delightful--such praises!--I really fear That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear, I've but time now to send you two exquisite sc.r.a.ps-- All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.

FROM THE "MORNING POST."

'Tis known that a certain distinguisht physician Prescribes, for _dyspepsia_, a course of light reading; And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition (Ere critics have injured their powers of nutrition,) Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.