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

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
Unembitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend;
We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had err'd,
And wept for the husband, the father, and friend.

Oh, proud was the meed his integrity won,
And gen'rous indeed were the tears that we shed,
When, in grief, we forgot all the ill he had done,
And, though wrong'd by him, living, bewail'd him, when dead.

Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude,
'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,
Had known what he was—and, content to be good,
Had ne'er, for our ruin, aspired to be great.

So, left through their own little orbit to move,
His years might have roll'd inoffensive away;
His children might still have been bless'd with his love,
And England would ne'er have been cursed with his sway.

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

[_]

To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle.

Sir,

In order to explain the following Fragment, it is necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, “Fum, The Chinese Bird of Royalty,” is a principal ornament.

I am, Sir, yours, &c. Mum.

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, Fum,
Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, Hum,
In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)
Where Fum had just come to pay Hum a short visit.—
Near akin are these Birds, though they differ in nation
(The breed of the Hums is as old as creation);

Both, full-craw'd Legitimates—both, birds of prey,
Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way
'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord C*stl---gh.
While Fum deals in Mandarins, Bonzes, Bohea,
Peers, Bishops, and Punch, Hum, are sacred to thee!
So congenial their tastes, that, when Fum first did light on
The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,
The lanterns, and dragons, and things round the dome
Were so like what he left, “Gad,” says Fum, “I'm at home.”—
And when, turning, he saw Bishop L---ge, “Zooks, it is,”
Quoth the Bird, “Yes—I know him—a Bonze, by his phyz—
“And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low
“Can be none but our round-about godhead, fat Fo!”
It chanced at this moment, th' Episcopal Prig
Was imploring the P---e to dispense with his wig ,

Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head,
And some Tobit-like marks of his patronage shed,
Which so dimm'd the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye,
That, while Fum cried “Oh Fo!” all the court cried “Oh fie!”

But, a truce to digression;—these Birds of a feather
Thus talk'd, t'other night, on State matters together;
(The P---e just in bed, or about to depart for't,
His legs full of gout, and his arms full of H*rtf---d,)
“I say, Hum,” says Fum—Fum, of course, spoke Chinese,
But, bless you, that's nothing—at Brighton one sees
Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease—
“I say, Hum, how fares it with Royalty now?
“Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney—or how?”
(The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree
Under B---rr---m---re, Y---th, and young Master L---e)
“As for us in Pekin”—here, a dev'l of a din
From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin,

C*stl---gh (whom Fum calls the Confusius of Prose),
Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose
To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.

(Nota bene—his Lordship and L*v*rp---l come,
In collateral lines, from the old Mother Hum,
C*stl---gh a Hum-bug—L*v*rp---l a Hum-drum.)
The Speech being finish'd, out rush'd C*stl---gh,
Saddled Hum in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away,
Through the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby,
Ne'er paused, till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.
[OMITTED]

In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his R---l H---ss.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHRD*N.

Principibus placuisse viris! —Horat.

Yes, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those,
Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career,
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:—

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed
By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave;—
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,
Like the Ghole of the East, comes to feed at his grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;

To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died—friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the fun'ral array
Of one, whom they shunn'd in his sickness and sorrow:—
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket, to-day,
Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!

And Thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream,
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pass'd,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam,
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:—

No, not for the wealth of the land, that supplies thee
With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;—
No, not for the riches of all who despise thee,
Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;—

Would I suffer what—ev'n in the heart that thou hast—
All mean as it is—must have consciously burn'd,

When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,
And which found all his wants at an end, was return'd!

“Was this then the fate,”—future ages will say,
When some names shall live but in history's curse;
When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day
Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse;—

“Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
“The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall,
“The orator,—dramatist,—minstrel,—who ran
“Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all;—

“Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art
“From the finest and best of all other men's powers;—
“Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,
“And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers;—

“Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light,
“Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd;—
“Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,
“Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;—

“Whose eloquence—bright'ning whatever it tried,
“Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,—
“Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide,
“As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!”

Yes—such was the man, and so wretched his fate;—
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve.

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ;
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die!

The sum was two hundred pounds—offered when Sh*r*d*n could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.

Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them. —History of Poland.

EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN

CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.

“Ahi, mio Ben!” Metastasio.

What! Ben, my old hero, is this your renown?
Is this the new go?—kick a man when he's down!
When the foe has knock'd under, to tread on him then—
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben!
“Foul! foul!” all the lads of the Fancy exclaim—
Charley Shock is electrified—Belcher spits flame—
And Molyneux—ay, even Blacky cries “shame!”

Time was, when John Bull little difference spied
'Twixt the foe at his feet, and the friend at his side:
When he found (such his humour in fighting and eating)
His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating.
But this comes, Master Ben, of your curst foreign notions,
Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions;
Your Noyaus, Curaçoas, and the Devil knows what—
(One swig of Blue Ruin is worth the whole lot!)
Your great and small crosses—(my eyes, what a brood!
A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good!)
Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise,
Of pure English claret is left in your corpus;
And (as Jim says) the only one trick, good or bad,
Of the Fancy you're up to, is fibbing, my lad.
Hence it comes,—Boxiana, disgrace to thy page!—
Having floor'd, by good luck, the first swell of the age!—
Having floor'd, by good luck, the first swell of the age,

Having conquer'd the prime one, that mill'd us all round,
You kick'd him, old Ben, as he gasp'd on the ground!
Ay—just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any—
Kick'd him, and jaw'd him, and lag'd him to Botany!
Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger! you, who, alas,
Doubled up, by the dozen, those Mounseers in brass,
On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes,
When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes,
Look down upon Ben—see him, dunghill all o'er,
Insult the fall'n foe, that can harm him no more!
Out, cowardly spooney!—again and again,
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben.
To show the white feather is many men's doom,
But, what of one feather?—Ben shows a whole Plume.

A nickname given, at this time, to the Pr---ce R*g---t.

Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St.Helena.

Tom, I suppose, was “assisted” to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going.

Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time.

Gin.

Transported.

A Life Guardsman, one of the Fancy, who distinguished himself, and was killed in the memorable set-to at Waterloo.