The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemm'd 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

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(Polyphlysbæan nam'd, in Greek),
Though soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
They'll thunder loud and long as He!

If you guess what this word means, 'tis more than I can:— I but give't as I got it from Mr. Magan. F.F.

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 invok'd 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.!

351

You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out
The whole secret, at once—I have publish'd 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 publish'd by Simpkins and Co.
A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled ‘Woe Woe!’
By Miss Fanny F---, known more commonly so

.”
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 manag'd, 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 , explain it, dear girl.
Suffice it to say, that one half the expense
Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence—
(Though “God knows,” as aunt says, my humble ambition
Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition,)—

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One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,
I've manag'd, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting
My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,
Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!

A day-coach of that name.

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,
Dipp'd in hues of the rainbow, stretch out through all time.
Gloves languish and fade away, pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics through ages trip on.
The remaining expense, trouble, risk—and, alas!
My poor copyright too—into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Dev'l of the “County Gazette”
(The only Mecænas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now set up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my “Heathen Mythology” says)

353

Live on nought but ambrosia, his lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky dev'l, on a young lady's metre!
As for puffing—that first of all lit'rary 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, nought could more prosp'rous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)
Knows the whole world 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 Dev'l on Two Sticks was a dev'l at Acrostics.
But hark! there's the Magnet just dash'd in from Town—
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.

354

That awful Court Journal, Gazette, Athenæum,
All full of my book—I shall sink when I see 'em.
And then the great point—whether Simpkins and Co.
Are actually pleas'd 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 scraps—
All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.

FROM THE “MORNING POST.”

'Tis known that a certain distinguish'd physician
Prescribes, for dyspepsia, a course of light reading;
And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition
(Ere critics have injur'd their powers of nutrition),
Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.
Satires irritate—love-songs are found calorific;
But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific,
And, if taken at bed-time, a sure soporific.

355

Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know,
Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co.,
Where all such ingredients—the flowery, the sweet,
And the gently narcotic—are mix'd per receipt,
With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation
To say that—'bove all, for the young generation—
'Tis an elegant, soothing, and safe preparation.

Nota bene—for readers, whose object's to sleep,
And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep
Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.

ANECDOTE—FROM THE “COURT JOURNAL.”

T'other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,
An amusing event was much whisper'd about.
It was said that Lord—, at the Council, that day,
Had, more than once, jump'd from his seat, like a rocket,
And flown to a corner, where—heedless, they say,
How the country's resources were squander'd away—
He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.

356

Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,
Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;
But it turn'd out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,
Which his Lordship devour'd with such zeal expeditious—
Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,
Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,
He had distanc'd the whole reading world by a day!