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

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write:—
Sudden I saw—as in some witching dream—
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning from a violet bed.
“Bless me!” I starting cried, “what imp are you?”—
“A small he-devil, Ma'am—my name Bas Bleu—
“A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;
“'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,
“The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,
“The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,

400

“And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy brain,
“With metaphysics twirl it back again!”

I view'd him, as he spoke—his hose were blue,
His wings—the covers of the last Review—
Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue,
And tinsell'd gaily o'er, for evening wear,
Till the next quarter brings a new-fledg'd pair.
“Inspir'd by me—(pursued this waggish Fairy)—
“That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,
“Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,
“Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes.
“For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,
“And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine;
“For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,
“Looks wise—the pretty soul!—and thinks she's thinking.
“By my advice Miss Indigo attends
“Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends,
“‘'Pon honour!— (mimics)
—nothing can surpass the plan
“‘Of that professor— (trying to recollect)
—psha! that memory-man—

401

“‘That—what's his name?—him I attended lately—
“‘'Pon honour, he improv'd my memory greatly.’”

Here, curtseying low, I ask'd the blue-legg'd sprite,
What share he had in this our play to-night.
“Nay, there—(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite—
“What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time,
“When no one waltz'd, and none but monks could rhyme;
“When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild,
“Blush'd without art, and without culture smil'd—
“Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone,
“Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own,
“Rang'd the wild, rosy things in learned orders,
“And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing borders!—
“No, no—your gentle Inas will not do—
“To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,
“I'll come— (pointing downwards)
—you understand—till then adieu!”

And has the sprite been here? No—jests apart—
Howe'er man rules in science and in art,
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.

402

And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true
The wife—the mother—firm, yet gentle too—
Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun,
Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one;
Who loves—yet dares even Love himself disown,
When Honour's broken shaft supports his throne:
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and—Blue Devils.