The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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The Harp of Erin | ||
AN EPISTLE TO THE CONTROVERTISTS ON BOTH SIDES OF THE CATHOLIC COMBUSTION.
ARGUMENT IN ABSTRACT.
The poet introduceth himself with a stare—Groweth so witty that Tom Brown was a mule to him—Saluteth the Pope magnificently—Hinteth at the huge rabble-rout of writers—Lasheth them severely—Addresseth both sides of the gutter with admirable politeness—Swearing—Contention—Hanging— Scribbling—Goose—Bacon—Falleth foul of the unfortunate authors who have written on the Catholic question—Cutteth them up nicely—Minceth and maketh a Christmas pye of them—Forsweareth ingratitude—Describeth the commotion of the coffee-house critics—Shoals of similes to the end of the chapter—Jack Presbyter's shrewd doubts—Unwilling to have the Catholics saved—Meekly possesseth his gentle, and humane turn of temper—Appeareth to wax rather impertinent—Avoweth his own praises again—Satan handed in with the witch of Endor—Classically elegant allusion—More egotism—Stickleth for freedom and equality—Pagan tenets
PRŒMIUM.
Of blue-bound quartos, what a motley brood,
Red-hot, and flaming from the devil's hand,
As o'er the window's glassy arches, peering,
Keen as a cat, I pored a-pamphleteering,
And spied such heaps, that with emphatic eye,
Loud did I cry,
“Good lack! have Stockdale, Hatchard, time to stand
In such rare attitudes, so striking fine?”
I gaz'd upon the bibliopolist's gay shrine,
With such anxiety—as would amaze ye,
Like one stark crazy.
With loftier simile my bosom burns.
So have I seen in Gill'ry's shop,
Hector, of Priam's house the prop;
Hector, (as Homer says) so famed for grinning,
With one hand, Styanax's bottom pinning,
And th' other, stretch'd in agony of prayers,
As if to beckon Jove down stairs.
All folk, like cur-dogs, by the breeches;
All brothers of the quill in prose sublime,
Without or reason, write, or rhime;
In civet, the pope's magnific toe,
Ne'er kick'd up such a dust before,
Nor did that venerable beau,
Suffer his rosy cherubim to snore,
But bade the itch of authorship to bite 'em
Ad infinitum.
Outface this venerable jury,
And say, “My noble, and approv'd good masters,”
When mother-church is sick,
Even I, in the nick,
Can patch the good old dame with plasters;
I dash away.
EPISTLE.
Messieurs!
To ribbon-rags, and bits of broken steel,
Or, Luther's honest schemes of diet studying,
On Friday, feast with carnal beef and pudding;
Or, whether of a mongrel-race,
You twang full sermons through the nose
In this same disputary case;
To all I offer up my lyric does,
Nor care, so patriotic my proceeding,
Which party's ribs are left a-bleeding.
Upon the forehead and the breast,)
And rous'd the whole vexatious nest;
Who swear most furiously, the scoundrel Romans,
Shall sit outside the House of Commons.
Per contra, the fierce Romans swear,
To pull taxation by the ear,
Knock pride, like rotten flounder, on the stones,
And break emancipation's bones;
Yes, they will be fry'd, bak'd, and roasted,
Ere privilege, the darling claim they lose,
Purchase the blessed boon, whatever cost it,
Or hang, cum totis viris, in their shoes;
And really, if they break their chains asunder,
I would advise the gentlemen to thunder.
Videlicet, a goose;
With all the rage of criticism taken,
To bang their consecrated bacon.
Furious they fling their venom'd foam about,
And take St. Peter by the snout.
Their periods all, like Addison's, so short,
Their florid dialect like Burke's;
Their sense as strong as fifty Turks,
Their wit as sharp and bright as knives and forks:
Give me, indeed, a world of sport;
Of asses ev'n—Ingratum odi.
The politicians prate about this matter,
And raise, with truly Aristarchal pride,
Heav'n's! what a clatter!
The coffee lingers at each statesman's lip,
And fluent wisdom butters every sip.
The horns that blew down (bubble-like) old Jericho,
Making the stagg'ring battlements to pound
Their dying habitants upon the ground,
Without any quarter;
Lying, like carrots in a smoking harrico,
Or composition-bolus in a mortar,
Were but mere bagpipes to the mighty lungs,
That swell of Mistress Fame, the thousand tongues.
Meanwhile, the froth-crown'd goblet briskly moves,
Light bounce (quicksilver all) the squibs of wit,
That fit the subject like a pair of gloves;
The Catholics they hunt as noblest game,
And talk, and tipple into fame,
Till the gruff waiter (an unwelcome guest!)
Presumes the jovial triflers to infest.
The Protestants not quite devout,
With cautious care, forsooth, exclaim,
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,”
Which in the English, Sirs, is quite the same,
As much as, “Martin shall repent his
Entering on leagues with Master Peter,”
Nothing than this construction comes completer.
Nay, March-hare mad, at this presumption,
Trembles, least legislature is beguil'd,
And marvels at the ninny-hammer's gumption;
(Gumption, a word which doth not vary,
Though not in Johnson's Dictionary.)
He fumes, to think those papists should be saved,
And power of his strong locks entirely shaved!
My pigeon-heart, as alabaster-white,
In each degree,
The offspring of one kingdom greatly free:
Which wish has brought into my mind,
An ode so simple, gen'rous, and refin'd;
An ode, which kindling up like tinder,
Breathes the celestial fire of Pindar,
And wonld not (reader, 'tis no trope!)
Disgrace the pen of Dryden, Gray, or Pope.
ODE TO TOLERATION.
Rais'd in soft rapture to the sky,
And loosely folded arms;
Glowing with holy love, I view
Thy rosy cheek's ambrosial hue;
Thy bosom's tranquil charms;
Glowing, I wooe thee to my pilgrim seat,
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.
With undisturb'd and candid car,
Nor turn the angry frown;
Appease the harpy fangs of law,
And make the peasant's wholesome straw,
More soft than bolted down;
Nymph, ever lovely, ever sweet.
Constant you tread, with glorious pride,
To hush the rapid storm;
Thy starry presence gilds the gloom,
Thy fragrance bathes the rose's bloom,
And gives creation form;
Spring flings her flow'rs beneath thy feet,
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.
Spread pure affection through mankind
Savage and fell no more;
Thy tongue, with words, 'bove mortal speech,
The high decrees of heav'n can teach,
And pity's tender lore;
Blest 'bove the haughty, 'bove the great
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.
Of sapphire light, that beams afar,
In brilliant pomp, descend;
So shall I smile on human race,
My trust in each man's bosom place,
And think each man my friend;
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.
EPISTLE continued.
Is this not pretty, gentles, eh!Quite in the taking way?
Sublime and beautiful, and soft, and tender,
Enough to melt the rugged witch of Endor:
Like snuff, to pinch Sir Satan by the nose,
And match the music of the warbling crows.
Lov'd Philomel her plaintive dirges pours,
Saddens the pale-eyed moon-beam's sombre light,
And tunes to pity's nerve the lonely hours;
Meanwhile, low breezes creep the leaves among,
And stilly whispers break her solitary song.
In ev'ry line more tow'ring to the skies;
My eagle-pinion sails the heights of air,
And leaves the mead below to dullness and despair.
Freedom, the Attic chord, divinely touches;
Freedom, of poesy the manly sire,
Who, could he get vile slav'ry in his clutches,
Would give the dæmon such a Cornish hug,
And crack his sides, as topers crack a jug.
'Tis fair Equality that rules the ball;
In golden balance hangs the orbs of light,
And bids the 'tendant glories beam so bright;
In ardent equipoise aloft they stand,
And bless Equality's almighty hand.
Scatters destruction o'er the trembling globe,
Rude rends sweet concord's floating robe,
And blights the pallid cheek of infant spring;
Disunion rises from the cell of death,
To kill the cordial smile, and blast the festal wreath.
People have worshipp'd sheep and horses;
Onions, were fav'rite gods of the Egyptians,
As Monsieur Pliny tells in grave descriptions;
Howe'er, to those I would not be so civil,
As to trot headlong to the devil,
Perchance, their tents, this year, are pitch'd below.
Shook Sinai's top, in thunder, and in flame,
Whose right hand clasps this universal all;
And is through ev'ry land th' eternal same;
Though modes may differ, he's as free
To gain his utmost wish, as me!
The rights of brotherhood abuse,
Forbid his blooming hopes of life to rise,
And crush the fruitful stem before his eyes?
No, the same common good is made for each,
And left within the best deserver's reach.
At honor's helm, as him who mocks his pray'r?
Feels not his breast as soft a load of care?
Is he not equal? then, whose impious hand
Shall drive from virtue's post the loyal band!
And is their gen'rous labour lost?
And must their meritorious actions die?
O'er which desponding justice heaves a sigh!
Nor mind a being in the awful crush;
Content their country's force to save,
By their own early grave!
In agony, bedew my spotless page.
No mitigation of your bondage crave,
For mis'ry is the portion of the brave!
Embolden'd by the sublime wish of protecting those they regard and love, of handing down the blessings of liberty to their children, and lastly, of exalting themselves above the level of servitude, they have determined again to petition their equals for the rights of life, and the rewards of patience, under a sway little less than despotic.
There are many Protestants, distinguished by their rank and virtues, who view the Catholics as brethren, and willingly would emancipate them from their present state of subjection; notwithstanding the holy prejudice which has recently been displayed by the white-stoled zealots, who dread the least innovation on their unmerited wealth and influence.
They have long seen, without murmuring, those who are oppressors, climb to the highest offices of the state, while they are universally despised, and neglected. Scorn itself is attended with loss of fortune. They are refused any department in the commonwealth! For what cause? Is it because they are loyal in their sufferings, and willing to assist without their hire? Is it because they are hindered from polishing their genius by the force of proper education? Is it because they defend that which they do not possess?— Who will reply? It cannot be that they are treated as vassals for following, with veneration, the mode of worship their forefathers, and those whose memory they held dear, followed. Who can say they are wrong, or who attest themselves right?—Another tribunal shall judge that matter.
TO THE CATHOLICS OF IRELAND.
Your chains in tears of anguish steep,
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie,
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!
No more with freedom flash his eyes,
No more the smiling pleasures steal
From heav'n, to bless his temp'rate meal;
Ev'n hospitality, no more
Courts the tir'd stranger to the door.
Where folly plants her venal band;
Gay humour drops the beamy dart,
All pow'rless on corruption's heart;
And, veil'd in shame's most sullen hues,
Fair honour follows with the Muse!
Best music to the patriot's ear;
The small lark from the russet brakes;
Or twilight, as it creeps along,
Made lovely by his ev'ning song!
(So much despis'd, the courtier's spoil!)
Without the soft arts that refine
The soul, and knit in bonds divine,
The vacant boast, the armed train,
Or all that tyrants grant—are vain!
No tributes to my country's woe?
Yes, while these streaming sluices view
Heav'n's light, shall pity fill anew;
But little can such grief avail!
Can tears a tyrant's heart assail?
Thy foes shall see, with equal fire,
I wield the sword, or sweep the lyre.
While echoing wilds his anguish caught,
The minstrel mourn'd—beneath the shade
Of barren boughs, for slav'ry made,
Juverna heard, and, as she sigh'd,
Quick turn'd, the blushful cheek to hide.
Commercial wealth, and plenty bore;
Droops in the gale—some British god
Has barr'd the ocean's open road,
In wild inviolable jest,
Says Thou be wretched, I am blest!
Your chains in tears of anguish steep;
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie;
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!
The Harp of Erin | ||