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

I've have a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess—
As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess—
It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,

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A dome of frost-work, on the plan
Of that once built by Empress Anne ,
Which shone by moonlight—as the tale is—
Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnish'd all
And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
Giv'n by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,
Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,
At Troppau, Laybach, and Verona.

The thought was happy—and design'd
To hint how thus the human Mind
May, like the stream imprison'd there,
Be check'd and chill'd, till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-prais'd, to dance upon it.

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And all were pleas'd, and cold, and stately,
Shivering in grand illumination—
Admir'd the superstructure greatly,
Nor gave one thought to the foundation.
Much too the Czar himself exulted,
To all plebeian fears a stranger,
For, Madame Krudener, when consulted,
Had pledg'd her word there was no danger.
So, on he caper'd, fearless quite,
Thinking himself extremely clever,
And waltz'd away with all his might,
As if the Frost would last for ever.

Just fancy how a bard like me,
Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled
To see that goodly company,
At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded—
For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy
Were seiz'd with an ill-omen'd dripping,
And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,
Their Holinesses took to slipping.

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The Czar, half through a Polonaise,
Could scarce get on for downright stumbling;
And Prussia, though to slippery ways
Well us'd, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas, who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.—
And now, to an Italian air,
This precious brace would, hand in hand, go;
Now—while old Louis, from his chair,
Intreated them his toes to spare—
Call'd loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had,
At which they all set to, like mad!
Never were Kings (though small th' expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)
So out of all their princely senses.
But, ah, that dance—that Spanish dance—
Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
Shot from an angry Southern sun,
A light through all the chambers flam'd,
Astonishing old Father Frost,

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Who, bursting into tears, exclaim'd,
“A thaw, by Jove—we're lost, we're lost!
“Run, France—a second Waterloo
“Is come to drown you—sauve qui peut!”

Why, why will monarchs caper so
In palaces without foundations?—
Instantly all was in a flow,
Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations—
Those Royal Arms, that look'd so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice—
Those Eagles, handsomely provided
With double heads for double dealings—
How fast the globes and sceptres glided
Out of their claws on all the ceilings!
Proud Prussia's double bird of prey
Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away;
While—just like France herself, when she
Proclaims how great her naval skill is—
Poor Louis' drowning fleurs-de-lys
Imagin'd themselves water-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,
But—still more fatal execution—

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The Great Legitimates themselves
Seem'd in a state of dissolution.
Th' indignant Czar—when just about
To issue a sublime Ukase,
“Whereas all light must be kept out”—
Dissolv'd to nothing in its blaze.
Next Prussia took his turn to melt,
And, while his lips illustrious felt
The influence of this southern air,
Some word, like “Constitution”—long
Congeal'd in frosty silence there—
Came slowly thawing from his tongue.
While Louis, lapsing by degrees,
And sighing out a faint adieu
To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese
And smoking fondus, quickly grew,
Himself, into a fondu too;—
Or like that goodly King they make
Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,
When, in some urchin's mouth, alas,
It melts into a shapeless mass!

In short, I scarce could count a minute,
Ere the bright dome, and all within it,

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Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone—
And nothing now was seen or heard
But the bright river, rushing on,
Happy as an enfranchis'd bird,
And prouder of that natural ray,
Shining along its chainless way—
More proudly happy thus to glide
In simple grandeur to the sea,
Than when, in sparkling fetters tied,
'Twas deck'd with all that kingly pride
Could bring to light its slavery!

Such is my dream—and, I confess,
I tremble at its awfulness.
That Spanish Dance—that southern beam—
But I say nothing—there's my dream—
And Madame Krudener, the she-prophet,
May make just what she pleases of it.

“It is well known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect.” —Pinkerton.

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FABLE II. THE LOOKING-GLASSES.

PROEM.

Where Kings have been by mob-elections
Rais'd to the throne, 'tis strange to see
What different and what odd perfections
Men have requir'd in Royalty.
Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy,
Have chos'n their Sovereigns by the weight;—
Some wish'd them tall, some thought your dumpy,
Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.
The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said,
Prefer what's call'd a jolter-head :
Th' Egyptians wer'n't at all partic'lar,
So that their Kings had not red hair—
This fault not ev'n the greatest stickler
For the blood-royal well could bear.

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A thousand more such illustrations
Might be adduc'd from various nations.
But, 'mong the many tales they tell us,
Touching th' acquir'd or natural right
Which some men have to rule their fellows,
There's one, which I shall here recite:—

FABLE.

There was a land—to name the place
Is neither now my wish nor duty—
Where reign'd a certain Royal race,
By right of their superior beauty.

What was the cut legitimate
Of these great persons' chins and noses,
By right of which they rul'd the state,
No history I have seen discloses.

But so it was—a settled case—
Some Act of Parliament, pass'd snugly,
Had voted them a beauteous race,
And all their faithful subjects ugly.

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As rank, indeed, stood high or low,
Some change it made in visual organs;
Your Peers were decent—Knights, so so—
But all your common people, gorgons!

Of course, if any knave but hinted
That the King's nose was turn'd awry,
Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted—
The judges doom'd that knave to die.

But rarely things like this occurr'd,
The people to their King were duteous,
And took it, on his Royal word,
That they were frights, and He was beauteous.

The cause whereof, among all classes,
Was simply this—these island elves
Had never yet seen looking-glasses,
And, therefore, did not know themselves.

Sometimes, indeed, their neighbours' faces
Might strike them as more full of reason,
More fresh than those in certain places—
But, Lord, the very thought was treason!

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Besides, howe'er we love our neighbour,
And take his face's part, 'tis known
We ne'er so much in earnest labour,
As when the face attack'd's our own.

So, on they went—the crowd believing—
(As crowds well govern'd always do)
Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving—
So old the joke, they thought 'twas true.

But jokes, we know, if they too far go,
Must have an end—and so, one day,
Upon that coast there was a cargo
Of looking-glasses cast away.

'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere,
Had laid their wicked heads together,
And forc'd that ship to founder there,—
While some believe it was the weather.

However this might be, the freight
Was landed without fees or duties;
And from that hour historians date
The downfal of the Race of Beauties.

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The looking-glasses got about,
And grew so common through the land,
That scarce a tinker could walk out,
Without a mirror in his hand.

Comparing faces, morning, noon,
And night, their constant occupation—
By dint of looking-glasses, soon,
They grew a most reflecting nation.

In vain the Court, aware of errors
In all the old, establish'd mazards,
Prohibited the use of mirrors,
And tried to break them at all hazards:—

In vain—their laws might just as well
Have been waste paper on the shelves;
That fatal freight had broke the spell;
People had look'd—and knew themselves.

If chance a Duke, of birth sublime,
Presum'd upon his ancient face,
(Some calf-head, ugly from all time,)
They popp'd a mirror to his Grace:—

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Just hinting, by that gentle sign,
How little Nature holds it true,
That what is call'd an ancient line,
Must be the line of Beauty too.

From Dukes' they pass'd to regal phizzes,
Compar'd them proudly with their own,
And cried, “How could such monstrous quizzes
“In Beauty's name usurp the throne!”—

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books,
Upon Cosmetical Œconomy,
Which made the King try various looks,
But none improv'd his physiognomy.

And satires at the Court were levell'd,
And small lampoons, so full of slynesses,
That soon, in short, they quite be-devil'd
Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.

At length—but here I drop the veil,
To spare some loyal folks' sensations;—
Besides, what follow'd is the tale
Of all such late-enlighten'd nations;

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Of all to whom old Time discloses
A truth they should have sooner known—
That Kings have neither rights nor noses
A whit diviner than their own.

The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their King. Munster, Cosmog. lib. iii. p. 164.

“In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable.” Oriental Field Sports.

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FABLE III. THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.

I saw it all in Fancy's glass—
Herself, the fair, the wild magician,
Who bid this splendid day-dream pass,
And nam'd each gliding apparition.

'Twas like a torch-race—such as they
Of Greece perform'd, in ages gone,
When the fleet youths, in long array,
Pass'd the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw th' expectant nations stand,
To catch the coming flame in turn;—
I saw, from ready hand to hand,
The clear, though struggling, glory burn.

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And, oh, their joy, as it came near,
'Twas, in itself, a joy to see;—
While Fancy whisper'd in my ear,
“That torch they pass is Liberty!”

And, each, as she receiv'd the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.

From Albion first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnish'd with the fire already,
Columbia caught the boon divine,
And lit a flame, like Albion's, steady.

The splendid gift then Gallia took,
And, like a wild Bacchante, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,
As she would set the world a-blazing!

Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high
Her altar blaz'd into the air,
That Albion, to that fire too nigh,
Shrunk back, and shudder'd at its glare!

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Next, Spain, so new was light to her,
Leap'd at the torch—but, ere the spark
That fell upon her shrine could stir,
'Twas quench'd—and all again was dark.

Yet, no—not quench'd—a treasure, worth
So much to mortals, rarely dies:
Again her living light look'd forth,
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.

Who next receiv'd the flame? alas,
Unworthy Naples—shame of shames,
That ever through such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touch'd the torch,
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting ev'n to feel the scorch,
She dropp'd it to the earth—and fled.

And fall'n it might have long remain'd;
But Greece, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd,
And wav'd it round her beauteous brow.

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And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er
Her altar, as its flame ascended,
Fair, laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar,
Who thus in song their voices blended:—

“Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame,
“Divinest gift of Gods to men!
“From Greece thy earliest splendour came,
“To Greece thy ray returns again.

“Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round,
“When dimm'd, revive, when lost, return,
“Till not a shrine through earth be found,
“On which thy glories shall not burn!”

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FABLE IV. THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.

PROEM.

Of all that, to the sage's survey,
This world presents of topsy-turvy,
There's nought so much disturbs one's patience,
As little minds in lofty stations.
'Tis like that sort of painful wonder,
Which slender columns, labouring under
Enormous arches, give beholders;—
Or those poor Caryatides,
Condemn'd to smile and stand at ease,
With a whole house upon their shoulders.

If, as in some few royal cases,
Small minds are born into such places—
If they are there, by Right Divine,
Or any such sufficient reason,

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Why—Heav'n forbid we should repine!—
To wish it otherwise were treason;
Nay, ev'n to see it in a vision,
Would be what lawyers call misprision.

Sir Robert Filmer saith—and he,
Of course, knew all about the matter—
“Both men and beasts love Monarchy;”
Which proves how rational—the latter.
Sidney, we know, or wrong or right,
Entirely differ'd from the Knight:
Nay, hints a King may lose his head,
By slipping awkwardly his bridle:—
But this is treasonous, ill-bred,
And (now-a-days, when Kings are led
In patent snaffles) downright idle.

No, no—it isn't right-line Kings,
(Those sovereign lords in leading-strings
Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,)
That move my wrath—'tis your pretenders,
Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth,
Who—not, like t'others, bores by birth,

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Establish'd gratiâ Dei blockheads,
Born with three kingdoms in their pockets—
Yet, with a brass that nothing stops,
Push up into the loftiest stations,
And, though too dull to manage shops,
Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!

This class it is, that moves my gall,
And stirs up bile, and spleen, and all.
While other senseless things appear
To know the limits of their sphere—
While not a cow on earth romances
So much as to conceit she dances—
While the most jumping frog we know of,
Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off—
Your ***s, your ***s dare,
Untrain'd as are their minds, to set them
To any business, any where,
At any time that fools will let them.

But leave we here these upstart things—
My business is, just now, with Kings;
To whom, and to their right-line glory,
I dedicate the following story.

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FABLE.

The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies;
And, ev'n when they most condescended to teach,
They pack'd up their meaning, as they did their mummies,
In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.

They were also, good people, much given to Kings—
Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery;
But blue-bottle flies were their best belov'd things—
As will partly appear in this very short history.

A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say,
To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,)
Stept into a temple at Memphis one day,
To have a short peep at their mystical farces.

He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar,
Made much of, and worshipp'd, as something divine;

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While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter,
Before it lay stabb'd at the foot of the shrine.

Surpris'd at such doings, he whisper'd his teacher—
“If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why
“Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature,
“Be thus offer'd up to a blue-bottle Fly?”

“No wonder”—said t'other—“you stare at the sight,
“But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it—
“That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right,
“And that Bullock, the People, that's sacrific'd to it.”

According to Ælian, it was in the island of Leucadia they practised this ceremony—θυειν βουν ταις μυιαις. —De Animal. lib. ii. cap. 8.

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FABLE V. CHURCH AND STATE.

PROEM.

“The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them.” —Soame Jenyns.

Thus did Soame Jenyns—though a Tory,
A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;
Feel how Religion's simple glory
Is stain'd by State associations.

When Catherine, ere she crush'd the Poles,
Appeal'd to the benign Divinity;
Then cut them up in protocols,
Made fractions of their very souls —
All in the name of the bless'd Trinity;
Or when her grandson, Alexander,
That mighty Northern salamander ,

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Whose icy touch, felt all about,
Puts every fire of Freedom out—
When he, too, winds up his Ukases
With God and the Panagia's praises—
When he, of royal Saints the type,
In holy water dips the spunge,
With which, at one imperial wipe,
He would all human rights expunge;
When Louis (whom as King, and eater,
Some name Dix-huit, and some Des-huitres,)
Calls down “St. Louis' God” to witness
The right, humanity, and fitness
Of sending eighty thousand Solons,
Sages, with muskets and lac'd coats,
To cram instruction, nolens volens,
Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats—
I can't help thinking, (though to Kings
I must, of course, like other men, bow,)
That when a Christian monarch brings
Religion's name to gloss these things—
Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow!

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Or—not so far for facts to roam,
Having a few much nearer home—
When we see Churchmen, who, if ask'd,
“Must Ireland's slaves be tith'd, and task'd,
“And driv'n, like Negroes or Croäts,
“That you may roll in wealth and bliss?”
Look from beneath their shovel hats
With all due pomp, and answer “Yes!”
But then, if question'd, “Shall the brand
“Intolerance flings throughout that land,—
“Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow
“Betwixt her palaces and hovels,
“Be ever quench'd?”—from the same shovels
Look grandly forth, and answer “No.”—
Alas, alas! have these a claim
To merciful Religion's name?
If more you seek, go see a bevy
Of bowing parsons at a levee—
(Choosing your time, when straw's before
Some apoplectic bishop's door,)
Then, if thou canst, with life, escape
That rush of lawn, that press of crape,
Just watch their rev'rences and graces,
As on each smirking suitor frisks,

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And say, if those round shining faces
To heav'n or earth most turn their disks?

This, this it is—Religion, made,
'Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade—
This most ill-match'd, unholy Co.,
From whence the ills we witness flow;
The war of many creeds with one—
Th' extremes of too much faith, and none—
Till, betwixt ancient trash and new,
'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy—the two
Rank ills with which this age is curst—
We can no more tell which is worst,
Than erst could Egypt, when so rich
In various plagues, determine which
She thought most pestilent and vile,
Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle,
Croaking their native mud-notes loud,
Or her fat locusts, like a cloud
Of pluralists, obesely lowering,
At once benighting and devouring!—

This—this it is—and here I pray
Those sapient wits of the Reviews,

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Who make us poor, dull authors say,
Not what we mean, but what they choose;
Who to our most abundant shares
Of nonsense add still more of theirs,
And are to poets just such evils
As caterpillars find those flies,
Which, not content to sting like devils,
Lay eggs upon their backs likewise—
To guard against such foul deposits
Of other's meaning in my rhymes,
(A thing more needful here, because it's
A subject, ticklish in these times)—
I, here, to all such wits make known,
Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory,
'Tis this Religion—this alone—
I aim at in the following story:—

Ames, demi-ames, &c.

The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by its natural coldness and moisture.

A well-known publisher of irreligious books.

“The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings into its body—at every dart they depose an egg.” —Goldsmith

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FABLE.

When Royalty was young and bold,
Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become—
If 'tisn't civil to say old,
At least, a ci-devant jeune homme;

One evening, on some wild pursuit,
Driving along, he chanc'd to see
Religion, passing by on foot,
And took him in his vis-à-vis.

This said Religion was a Friar,
The humblest and the best of men,
Who ne'er had notion or desire
Of riding in a coach till then.

“I say”—quoth Royalty, who rather
Enjoy'd a masquerading joke—
“I say, suppose, my good old father,
“You lend me, for a while, your cloak.”

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The Friar consented—little knew
What tricks the youth had in his head;
Besides, was rather tempted too
By a lac'd coat he got in stead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,
Scampering like mad about the town;
Broke windows, shiver'd lamps to smash,
And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.

While nought could they, whose heads were broke,
Learn of the “why” or the “wherefore,”
Except that 'twas Religion's cloak
The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd
By the lac'd coat, grew frisky too;
Look'd big—his former habits spurn'd—
And storm'd about, as great men do:

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses—
Said “d*mn you” often, or as bad—
Laid claim to other people's purses—
In short, grew either knave, or mad.

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As work like this was unbefitting,
And flesh and blood no longer bore it,
The Court of Common Sense, then sitting,
Summon'd the culprits both before it.

Where, after hours in wrangling spent
(As Courts must wrangle to decide well),
Religion to St. Luke's was sent,
And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell.

With this proviso—should they be
Restor'd, in due time, to their senses,
They both must give security,
In future, against such offences—

Religion ne'er to lend his cloak,
Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke,—
But not to crack poor people's heads too.

246

FABLE VI. THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese,
The daughter of a learn'd Law Doctor,
Who had with all the subtleties
Of old and modern jurists stock'd her,
Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said,
And over hearts held such dominion,
That when her father, sick in bed,
Or busy, sent her, in his stead,
To lecture on the Code Justinian,
She had a curtain drawn before her,
Lest, if her charms were seen, the students
Should let their young eyes wander o'er her,
And quite forget their jurisprudence.

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Just so it is with Truth, when seen,
Too dazzling far,—'tis from behind
A light, thin allegoric screen,
She thus can safest teach mankind.

Andreas.

Quand il étoit occupé d'aucune essoine, il envoyoit Novelle, sa fille, en son lieu lire aux escholes en charge, et, afin que la biaüté d'elle n'empêchât la pensée des oyants, elle avoit une petite courtine devant elle. —Christ. de Pise, Cité des Dames, p. 11. cap. 36.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told,
A little Lama, one year old—
Rais'd to the throne, that realm to bless,
Just when his little Holiness
Had cut—as near as can be reckon'd—
Some say his first tooth, some his second.
Chronologers and Nurses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary.
We only know th' important truth,
His Majesty had cut a tooth.

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And much his subjects were enchanted,—
As well all Lamas' subjects may be,
And would have giv'n their heads, if wanted,
To make tee-totums for the baby.
Thron'd as he was by Right Divine—
(What Lawyers call Jure Divino,
Meaning a right to yours, and mine,
And every body's goods and rhino,)
Of course, his faithful subjects' purses
Were ready with their aids and succours;
Nothing was seen but pension'd Nurses,
And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet,
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,
Ye Gods, what room for long debates
Upon the Nursery Estimates!
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes
And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles!
What calls for papers to expose
The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But no—if Thibet had M. P.'s,
They were far better bred than these;

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Nor gave the slightest opposition,
During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm;—for, just when he
Had reach'd th' alarming age of three,
When Royal natures, and, no doubt,
Those of all noble beasts break out—
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh;
Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry,
And trod on the old Generals' toes;
Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,
Rode cock-horse on the City maces,
And shot from little devilish guns,
Hard peas into his subjects' faces.
In short, such wicked pranks he play'd,
And grew so mischievous, God bless him!
That his Chief Nurse—with ev'n the aid
Of an Archbishop—was afraid,
When in these moods, to comb or dress him.

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Nay, ev'n the persons most inclin'd
Through thick and thin, for Kings to stickle,
Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind,
Which they did not) an odious pickle.

At length some patriot lords—a breed
Of animals they've got in Thibet,
Extremely rare, and fit, indeed,
For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit—
Some patriot lords, who saw the length
To which things went, combin'd their strength,
And penn'd a manly, plain and free
Remonstrance to the Nursery;
Protesting warmly that they yielded
To none, that ever went before 'em,
In loyalty to him who wielded
Th' hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em;
That, as for treason, 'twas a thing
That made them almost sick to think of—
That they and theirs stood by the King,
Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,
When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!—

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But, still—though much admiring Kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings),
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,
There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control
Of birch before their ruler's eyes;
But that, of late, such pranks, and tricks,
And freaks occurr'd the whole day long,
As all, but men with bishopricks,
Allow'd, in ev'n a King, were wrong.
Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd
That Honourable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made,
As all good men desir'd to see;—
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,
And in its bud the mischief nipping—
They ventur'd humbly to suggest
His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read, no Congreve rocket,
Discharg'd into the Gallic trenches,

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E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it
Produced upon the Nursery benches.
The Bishops, who of course had votes,
By right of age and petticoats,
Were first and foremost in the fuss—
“What, whip a Lama! suffer birch
“To touch his sacred ------ infamous!
“Deistical!—assailing thus
“The fundamentals of the Church!—
“No—no—such patriot plans as these,
“(So help them Heaven—and their Sees!)
“They held to be rank blasphemies.”

Th' alarm thus given, by these and other
Grave ladies of the Nursery side,
Spread through the land, till, such a pother,
Such party squabbles, far and wide,
Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state,
Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, though late,
Was put at last in execution.

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The Parliament of Thibet met—
The little Lama, call'd before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the Nursery Gazette
Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though, 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal Martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word's pronounc'd like B),
Yet to th' example of that Prince
So much is Thibet's land a debtor,
That her long line of Lamas, since,
Have all behav'd themselves much better.

See Turner's Embassy to Thibet for an account of his interview with the Lama.—“Teshoo Lama (he says) was at this time eighteen months old. Though he was unable to speak a word, he made the most expressive signs, and conducted himself with astonishing dignity and decorum.”

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FABLE VII. THE EXTINGUISHERS.

PROEM.

Though soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think—
Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,—
And reasoners, whether clad in pink,
Or red, or blue, are on the brink
(Nine cases out of ten) of treason.

Not many soldiers, I believe, are
As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else—woe to Kings, when Freedom's fever
Once turns into a Scarletina!
For then—but hold—'tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale:—

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FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shock'd to find he had, for neighbours,
Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers,
Whose fires, beneath his very nose,
In heretic combustion rose.
But Lords of Persia can, no doubt,
Do what they will—so, one fine morning,
He turn'd the rascal Ghebers out,
First giving a few kicks for warning.
Then, thanking heaven most piously,
He knock'd their Temple to the ground,
Blessing himself for joy to see
Such Pagan ruins strew'd around.
But much it vex'd my Lord to find,
That, while all else obey'd his will,
The Fire these Ghebers left behind,
Do what he would, kept burning still.
Fiercely he storm'd, as if his frown
Could scare the bright insurgent down;

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But, no—such fires are headstrong things,
And care not much for Lords or Kings.
Scarce could his Lordship well contrive
The flashes in one place to smother,
Before—hey presto!—all alive,
They sprung up freshly in another.

At length when, spite of prayers and damns,
'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him,
His stewards came, with low salams,
Offering, by contract, to provide him
Some large Extinguishers, (a plan,
Much us'd, they said, at Ispahan,
Vienna, Petersburgh—in short,
Wherever Light's forbid at court,)
Machines no Lord should be without,
Which would, at once, put promptly out
All kinds of fires,—from staring, stark
Volcanos to the tiniest spark;
Till all things slept as dull and dark,
As, in a great Lord's neighbourhood,
'Twas right and fitting all things should.

Accordingly, some large supplies
Of these Extinguishers were furnish'd

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(All of the true Imperial size),
And there, in rows, stood black and burnish'd,
Ready, where'er a gleam but shone
Of light or fire, to be clapp'd on.

But, ah, how lordly wisdom errs,
In trusting to extinguishers!
One day, when he had left all sure,
(At least, so thought he) dark, secure—
The flame, at all its exits, entries,
Obstructed to his heart's content,
And black extinguishers, like sentries,
Plac'd over every dangerous vent—
Ye Gods, imagine his amaze,
His wrath, his rage, when, on returning,
He found not only the old blaze,
Brisk as before, crackling and burning,—
Not only new, young conflagrations,
Popping up round in various stations—
But, still more awful, strange, and dire,
Th' Extinguishers themselves on fire!!

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They, they—those trusty, blind machines
His Lordship had so long been praising,
As, under Providence, the means
Of keeping down all lawless blazing,
Were now, themselves—alas, too true
The shameful fact—turn'd blazers too,
And, by a change as odd as cruel,
Istead of dampers, served for fuel!

Thus, of his only hope bereft,
“What,” said the great man, “must be done?”—
All that, in scrapes like this, is left
To great men is—to cut and run.
So run he did; while to their grounds,
The banish'd Ghebers blest return'd;
And, though their Fire had broke its bounds,
And all abroad now wildly burn'd,
Yet well could they, who lov'd the flame,
Its wand'ring, its excess reclaim;
And soon another, fairer Dome
Arose to be its sacred home,

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Where, cherish'd, guarded, not confin'd,
The living glory dwelt inshrin'd,
And, shedding lustre strong, but even,
Though born of earth, grew worthy heav'n.

The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant mots, which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the “Letters to Julia,”—a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.

MORAL.

The moral hence my Muse infers
Is, that such Lords are simple elves,
In trusting to Extinguishers,
That are combustible themselves.

260

FABLE VIII. LOUIS FOURTEENTH'S WIG.

The money rais'd—the army ready—
Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy
Valiantly braying in the van,
To the old tune “Eh, eh, Sire Âne!” —
Nought wanting, but some coup dramatic,
To make French sentiment explode,
Bring in, at once, the goût fanatic,
And make the war “la dernière mode”—
Instantly, at the Pav'llon Marsan,
Is held an Ultra consultation—
What's to be done, to help the farce on?
What stage-effect, what decoration,

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To make this beauteous France forget,
In one, grand, glorious pirouette,
All she had sworn to but last week,
And, with a cry of “Magnifique!”
Rush forth to this, or any war,
Without inquiring once—“What for?”

After some plans propos'd by each,
Lord Chateaubriand made a speech,
(Quoting, to show what men's rights are,
Or rather what men's rights should be,
From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Czar,
And other friends to Liberty,)
Wherein he—having first protested
'Gainst humouring the mob—suggested
(As the most high-bred plan he saw
For giving the new War éclat)
A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame,
To be got up at Nôtre Dame,
In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!
Had by his hilt acquir'd such fame,
'Twas hop'd that he as little shyness
Would show, when to the point he came,)

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Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted,
Be christen'd Hero, ere he started;
With power, by Royal Ordonnance,
To bear that name—at least in France.
Himself—the Viscount Chateaubriand—
(To help th' affair with more esprit on)
Offering, for this baptismal rite,
Some of his own fam'd Jordan water —
(Marie Louise not having quite
Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her,)
The baptism, in this case, to be
Applied to that extremity,
Which Bourbon heroes most expose;
And which (as well all Europe knows)
Happens to be, in this Defender
Of the true Faith, extremely tender.

Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme
Too rash and premature should seem—

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If thus discounting heroes, on tick—
This glory, by anticipation,
Was too much in the genre romantique
For such a highly classic nation,
He begg'd to say, the Abyssinians
A practice had in their dominions,
Which, if at Paris got up well,
In full costume, was sure to tell.
At all great epochs, good or ill,
They have, says Bruce (and Bruce ne'er budges
From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille
In public danc'd by the Twelve Judges —
And, he assures us, the grimaces,
The entre-chats, the airs and graces
Of dancers, so profound and stately,
Divert the Abyssinians greatly.

“Now (said the Viscount), there's but few
“Great Empires, where this plan would do:
“For instance, England;—let them take
“What pains they would—'twere vain to strive—

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“The twelve stiff Judges there would make
“The worst Quadrille-set now alive.
“One must have seen them, ere one could
“Imagine properly Judge Wood,
“Performing, in his wig, so gaily,
“A queue-de-chat with Justice Bailey!
“French Judges, though, are, by no means,
“This sort of stiff, be-wigg'd machines;
“And we, who've seen them at Saumur,
“And Poitiers lately, may be sure
“They'd dance quadrilles, or any thing,
“That would be pleasing to the King—
“Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do,
“To please the little Duke de Bordeaux!”

After these several schemes there came
Some others—needless now to name,
Since that, which Monsieur plann'd, himself,
Soon doom'd all others to the shelf,
And was receiv'd par acclamation,
As truly worthy the Grande Nation.

It seems (as Monsieur told the story)
That Louis the Fourteenth,—that glory,

265

That Coryphée of all crown'd pates,—
That pink of the Legitimates—
Had, when, with many a pious pray'r, he
Bequeath'd unto the Virgin Mary
His marriage deeds, and cordon bleu ,
Bequeath'd to her his State Wig too—
(An offering which, at Court, 'tis thought,
The Virgin values as she ought)—
That Wig, the wonder of all eyes,
The Cynosure of Gallia's skies,
To watch and tend whose curls ador'd,
Re-build its towering roof, when flat,
And round its rumpled base, a Board
Of sixty Barbers daily sat ,

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With Subs, on State-Days, to assist,
Well pension'd from the Civil List:—
That wondrous Wig, array'd in which,
And form'd alike to awe or witch,
He beat all other heirs of crowns,
In taking mistresses and towns,
Requiring but a shot at one,
A smile at t'other, and 'twas done!—

“That Wig (said Monsieur, while his brow
Rose proudly,) “is existing now;—
“That Grand Perruque, amid the fall
Of every other Royal glory,
“With curls erect survives them all,
“And tells in every hair their story.
“Think, think, how welcome at this time
“A relic, so belov'd, sublime!
“What worthier standard of the Cause
“Of Kingly Right can France demand?
“Or who among our ranks can pause
“To guard it, while a curl shall stand?
“Behold, my friends—(while thus he cried,
A curtain, which conceal'd this pride
Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside)

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“Behold that grand Perruque—how big
“With recollections for the world—
“For France—for us—Great Louis' Wig,
“By Hippolyte new frizz'd and curl'd—
“New frizz'd! alas, 'tis but too true,
“Well may you start at that word new—
“But such the sacrifice, my friends,
“Th' Imperial Cossack recommends;
“Thinking such small concessions sage,
“To meet the spirit of the age,
“And do what best that spirit flatters,
“In Wigs—if not in weightier matters.
“Wherefore, to please the Czar, and show
“That we too, much-wrong'd Bourbons, know
“What liberalism in Monarchs is,
“We have conceded the New Friz!
“Thus arm'd, ye gallant Ultras, say,
“Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray?
“With this proud relic in our van,
“And D'Angoulême our worthy leader,
“Let rebel Spain do all she can,
“Let recreant England arm and feed her,—

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“Urg'd by that pupil of Hunt's school,
“That Radical, Lord Liverpool—
“France can have nought to fear—far from it—
“When once astounded Europe sees
“The Wig of Louis, like a Comet,
“Streaming above the Pyrenées,
“All's o'er with Spain—then on, my sons,
“On, my incomparable Duke,
“And, shouting for the Holy Ones,
“Cry Vive la Guerre—et la Perruque!”

They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass, finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this elegant anthem, “Eh, eh, eh, Sire Âne, eh, eh, eh, Sire Âne.” —Warton's Essay on Pope.

Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.

See the Duke's celebrated letter to madame, written during his campaign in 1815, in which he says, “J'ai le posterieur légèrement endommagé.”

“On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the figure-dance,” &c. —Book v.

“Louis XIV. fit présent à la Vierge de son cordon bleu, que l'on conserve soigneusement, et lui envoya ensuite, son Contrat de Mariage et le Traité des Pyrenées, magnifiquement relié.” —Mémoires, Anecdotes pour servir, &c.

The learned author of Recherches Historiques sur les Perruques says that the Board consisted but of Forty—the same number as the Academy. “Le plus beau tems des perruques fut celui où Louis XIV. commenç à porter, lui-même, perruque; ------ On ignore l'époque où se fit cette révolution; mais on sait qu'elle engagea Louis le Grand à y donner ses soins paternels, en créant, en 1656, quarante charges de perruquiers, suivant la cour; et en 1673, il forma un corps de deux cents perruquiers pour la Ville de Paris.” —P. 111.

A celebrated Coiffeur of the present day.