The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
 | VI, VII. |
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| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
At last, Dolly,—thanks to a potent emetic,
Which Bobby and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallow'd this morning, to balance the bliss,
Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'ecrevisses—
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady Jane, in the novel, less languish'd to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord Neville's
Was actually dying with love or—blue devils.
But Love, Dolly, Love is the theme I pursue;
With Blue Devils, thank heav'n, I have nothing to do—
Except, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies
Any imps of that colour in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, Doll, at his do the same;
Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, “Lord, Sir, for shame!”
Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress
For the happy occasion—the sunshine express—
Had we order'd it, dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.
Though late when we started, the scent of the air
Was like Gattie's rose-water,—and, bright, here and there,
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet!
While the birds seem'd to warble as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plum'd Calicot had for her spouse;
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And—in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose;
And, ah, I shall ne'er, liv'd I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!
Which Bobby and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallow'd this morning, to balance the bliss,
Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'ecrevisses—
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady Jane, in the novel, less languish'd to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord Neville's
Was actually dying with love or—blue devils.
But Love, Dolly, Love is the theme I pursue;
With Blue Devils, thank heav'n, I have nothing to do—
Except, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies
Any imps of that colour in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, Doll, at his do the same;
Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, “Lord, Sir, for shame!”
196
For the happy occasion—the sunshine express—
Had we order'd it, dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.
Though late when we started, the scent of the air
Was like Gattie's rose-water,—and, bright, here and there,
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet!
While the birds seem'd to warble as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plum'd Calicot had for her spouse;
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And—in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose;
And, ah, I shall ne'er, liv'd I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!
There was but one drawback—at first when we started,
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;
How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob!
He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with Bob;
And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so.
For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of Boney's—
Served with him of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies.
So martial his features! dear Doll, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass ,
Which the poor Duc de B*ri must hate so to pass!
It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do—
About English affairs an odd blunder or two.
For example—misled by the names, I dare say—
He confounded Jack Castles with Lord C---gh;
And—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on—
Fancied the present Lord C*md*n the clever one!
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;
How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob!
He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with Bob;
197
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so.
For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of Boney's—
Served with him of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies.
So martial his features! dear Doll, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass ,
Which the poor Duc de B*ri must hate so to pass!
It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do—
About English affairs an odd blunder or two.
For example—misled by the names, I dare say—
He confounded Jack Castles with Lord C---gh;
And—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on—
Fancied the present Lord C*md*n the clever one!
But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;
'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, Doll, to know
All the life and adventures of Jean Jacques Rousseau!—
“'Twas there,” said he—not that his words I can state—
'Twas a gibb'rish that Cupid alone could translate;—
But “there,” said he, (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose,) “there his Julie he wrote,—
“Upon paper gilt-edg'd , without blot or erasure;
“Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
“And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do?—
“Tied the leaves up together with nompareille blue!”
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjur'd up here!
Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!
“'Twas here, too, perhaps,” Colonel Calicot said—
As down the small garden he pensively led—
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the lov'd periwinkle)
“'Twas here he receiv'd from the fair D'Epinay
“(Who call'd him so sweetly her Bear , every day,)
“That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form
“A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!”
'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, Doll, to know
All the life and adventures of Jean Jacques Rousseau!—
198
'Twas a gibb'rish that Cupid alone could translate;—
But “there,” said he, (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose,) “there his Julie he wrote,—
“Upon paper gilt-edg'd , without blot or erasure;
“Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
“And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do?—
“Tied the leaves up together with nompareille blue!”
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjur'd up here!
Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!
199
As down the small garden he pensively led—
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the lov'd periwinkle)
“'Twas here he receiv'd from the fair D'Epinay
“(Who call'd him so sweetly her Bear , every day,)
“That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form
“A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!”
Such, Doll, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd.
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
Cambric, and silk, and—I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun was then hast'ning in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd me, with eagerness,—who made my gown?
The question confus'd me—for, Doll, you must know,
And I ought to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturière, Madame le Roi;
But am forc'd now to have Victorine, who—deuce take her!—
It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker—
I mean of his party—and, though much the smartest,
Le Roi is condemn'd as a rank Bonapartist.
Think, Doll, how confounded I look'd—so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammer'd out something—nay, even half nam'd
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
“Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
“It was made by that Bourbonite b---h, Victorine!”
What a word for a hero!—but heroes will err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they were.
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.
As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd.
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
200
For the sun was then hast'ning in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd me, with eagerness,—who made my gown?
The question confus'd me—for, Doll, you must know,
And I ought to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturière, Madame le Roi;
But am forc'd now to have Victorine, who—deuce take her!—
It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker—
I mean of his party—and, though much the smartest,
Le Roi is condemn'd as a rank Bonapartist.
Think, Doll, how confounded I look'd—so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;
201
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
“Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
“It was made by that Bourbonite b---h, Victorine!”
What a word for a hero!—but heroes will err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they were.
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.
But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away,
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,—
The nothings that then, love, are every thing to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Bob calls the “Twopenny-post of the Eyes”—
Ah, Doll! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpractis'd these things to explain.
They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
But here I must finish—for Bob, my dear Dolly,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seiz'd with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre—“for there is,”
Said he, looking solemn, “the tomb of the Vèrys!
“Long, long have I wish'd, as a votary true,
“O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
“And, to-day—as my stomach is not in good cue
“For the flesh of the Vérys—I'll visit their bones!”
He insists upon my going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie
Unseal'd in my draw'r, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-bye.
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,—
The nothings that then, love, are every thing to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Bob calls the “Twopenny-post of the Eyes”—
Ah, Doll! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpractis'd these things to explain.
They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
202
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seiz'd with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre—“for there is,”
Said he, looking solemn, “the tomb of the Vèrys!
“Long, long have I wish'd, as a votary true,
“O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
“And, to-day—as my stomach is not in good cue
“For the flesh of the Vérys—I'll visit their bones!”
He insists upon my going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie
Unseal'd in my draw'r, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-bye.
B. F.
“Employant pour cela le plus beau papier doré, séchant l'écriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent, et cousant mes cahiers avec de la nompareille bleue.”—Les Confessions, part ii. liv. 9.
This word, “exquisite,” is evidently a favourite of Miss Fudge's; and I understand she was not a little angry when her brother Bob committed a pun on the last two syllables of it in the following couplet:—
“I'd fain praise your Poem—but tell me, how is it
When I cry out “Exquisite,” Echo cries “quiz it?”
When I cry out “Exquisite,” Echo cries “quiz it?”
The flower which Rousseau brought into such fashion among the Parisians, by exclaiming one day, “Ah, voilà de la pervenche!”
“Un jour, qu'il geloit très fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoyoit, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquoit avoir porté, et dont elle vouloit que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, plus qu'amical, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se fût dépouillée pour me vétir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois en pleurant le billet et le jupon.”
Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for “Le Roi.”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |