The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN. |
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| 2. |
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| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
22
THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.
“We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so, why not let us die in peace?”
—Lord Bexley's Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.
Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop,
Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick V---ns---tt---t drop
Into his grave in peace.
Ye curst improvements, cease;
And let poor Nick V---ns---tt---t drop
Into his grave in peace.
Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun,
Young Freedom, veil thy head;
Let nothing good be thought or done,
Till Nick V---ns---tt---t's dead!
Young Freedom, veil thy head;
Let nothing good be thought or done,
Till Nick V---ns---tt---t's dead!
Take pity on a dotard's fears,
Who much doth light detest;
And let his last few drivelling years
Be dark as were the rest.
Who much doth light detest;
And let his last few drivelling years
Be dark as were the rest.
You, too, ye fleeting one-pound notes,
Speed not so fast away—
Ye rags, on which old Nicky gloats,
A few months longer stay.
Speed not so fast away—
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A few months longer stay.
Together soon, or much I err,
You both from life may go—
The notes unto the scavenger,
And Nick—to Nick below.
You both from life may go—
The notes unto the scavenger,
And Nick—to Nick below.
Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan,
Be all reforms suspended;
In compliment to dear old Van,
Let nothing bad be mended.
Be all reforms suspended;
In compliment to dear old Van,
Let nothing bad be mended.
Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings,
Your cry politely cease,
And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings
That Van may die in peace.
Your cry politely cease,
And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings
That Van may die in peace.
So shall he win a fame sublime
By few old rag-men gain'd;
Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,
Nor sense, nor justice reign'd.
By few old rag-men gain'd;
Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,
Nor sense, nor justice reign'd.
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So shall his name through ages past,
And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from “the days of Nicholas,”
With fond and sad regret;—
And dolts ungotten yet,
Date from “the days of Nicholas,”
With fond and sad regret;—
And sighing, say, “Alas, had he
“Been spar'd from Pluto's bowers,
“The blessed reign of Bigotry
“And Rags might still be ours!”
“Been spar'd from Pluto's bowers,
“The blessed reign of Bigotry
“And Rags might still be ours!”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |