His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly- where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella?
For character he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to "Black-it."
ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!
Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!
(How surely he who mounts you swears!) Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets without letters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen !
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,
Adieu his Excellency's dancers!
Adieu to Peter whom no fault's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces
Adieu red coats, and redder faces !
Adieu the supercilious air
Of all that strut "en militaire ! !"
I go
but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad but in a different way.
Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue!
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme- because 't is "gratis."
And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line- or two were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.
And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic, while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods I've got a fever.
UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst! Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power; Wrath's viol on thy lofty head hath burst. In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, How wond'rous bright thy blooming morn arose ! But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.
1811. [First published, 1832.]
ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA.
GOOD plays are scarce,
So Moore writes farce :
The poet's fame grows brittle —
We knew before
That Little's Moore,
But now 't is Moore that's little.
IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO BANISH CARE.
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
1 "On a leaf of one of Lord Byron's paper-books I find an Epigram, which, though not perhaps particularly good, I consider myself bound to insert."- MOORE. [The farce in question was called "M. P.; or, the Blue Stocking," and came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.]
2 [i. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought — but let them pass -
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak speak of any thing but love.
'T were long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
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