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The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge
By woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize, To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college
I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes. (vi. Attun'd to the scene, when the pale yellow moon is on
Tower and tree they'd look sober and sage, And when they all wink'd their dear peepers in unison,
Night, pitchy night, would envelop the stage.
I'd love her as long as she blossomed in youth ;
But when beauty smiles how much whiter the tooth.)
" Moore will not live long as a song writer, he has not the stamina in him at all. His verses are elegant, pretty, glittering, anything you please in that line ; but they have defects which will not allow them to get down to posterity His strong party views, his affectation of learning, his parade of his knowledge of botany, zoology, and the other 'ologies, these are serious defects, and then the mixed metaphors, and often down-right nonsense to be found in his songs, all detract from his chances of immortality."
“Here” says Wilson " is a song he intended to be sung by :
A FALLEN ANGEL OVER A BOWL OF RUM-PUNCH.
There too is the lash which, all statues controlling,
Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair ; For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling,
Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.
Bloom, theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes
Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile ! And flourish, ye pillars, * as green as the rushes
That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle !
Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave, Whose sons, unaccustom'd to rebel commotion,
Tho' joyous are sober-tho' peaceful, are brave.
Heap on more coal there,
And keep the glass moving, The frost nips my nose,
Though my heart glows with loving. Here's the dear creature,
No skylights-a bumper ;
With hey cow rumble 0,
Whack ! populorum,
Push round the jorum.
What are Heaven's pleasures
That so very sweet are? Singing from psalters,
In long or short metre.
Without any breeches,
With hey cow rumble &c.
O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles
Which each panting bosom indignantly names, Until not one goose at the capital cackles
Against the grand question of Catholic claims.
And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey
Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy, Hold the helm of the State, and dispense in a jiffy
More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.
Wide is the difference,
My own boozing bullies, Here the round punch-bowl,
Heap'd to the full is.
Thinks that up “yonder
With hey cow rumble, &c.
* This alludes to two massive pillars of verd antique which then flanked the proscenium, but which were afterwards removed. Their colour reminds the bard of the Emerald Isle, and this causes him (more suo) to fly off at a tangent, and Hinernic'se the rest of the poem.
LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES.
LITTLE Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper mill played ; And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting
The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made. The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,
Round the Miller's veranda that clustered and twined; And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to his mind. And forth came the Miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face, And behind him a Scotchman was singing “ Prosperity,”
And picking his pocket with infinite grace. And “Walth and prosparity," "Walth and prosparity,”
His bonny scotch burthen arose on the air, Is a song all in praise of that primitive charity, Which begins with sweet home, and which terminates
But weep for the hour ! Life's summer is past,
And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;. And my soul as it shrinks from cach stroke of the blast,
Can not turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead-and, alas ! Love or Song
No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire tête-à-tête with a friend.
But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,
And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone. And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,
The mill to a million of atoms was blown. Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,
When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where ; And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air. Little Cupid continued to hover and futter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high, As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky. “Oh, mother,” he cried, as he showed them to Venus,
What are these little talismans cyphered-One-One? If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us,
Though their smell is like, nonesof the newest, poor John !” “My darling,” says Venus, " away from you throw them,
They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals 'tis true ; But we want them not here, though I think you might know
them, Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you."
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. (From Paper Money Lyrics, written during the commercial panic, in the winter 1825-26.)
(A Parody on the Anacreonti: Song.)
“My friends, I declare
I have no cash to spare,
But then I'll instruct you like me how to dine,
And make creditors pay for the banquet and wine." By this answer appalled, at the statesman they stared, And then fell to bowing, beseeching, and coaxing, But their time and their talking they well might have spared, For old Sherry's grand forte was cajoling and hoaxing.
My good friends," says he,
“The thing cannot be, For my purse can't produce to you one mar’vedie ;
But if to discount some more bills you incline,
You all shall partake of my banquet and wine."
“Goods and chattels," says he,
“You can't get from me, And from all your arrests, I'm by privilege free ;
Disappointed and vex'd, let my creditors whine,
I'll still make them pay for my banquets and wine.
Then submit with good grace,
For while I'm out of place All payment of debt is quite out of the case ;
But if once I get in, 'tis my serious design,
That the nation shall pay for my banquet and wine." The duns one and all from his presence withdrew, In sullen despair of e'er touching the rhino. And they'd never come there is old Sherry they knew But one half so truly as you or I know.
In passing this quiz,
So flushed was his phiz,
He returned to his friends, who'd just helped him to dine,
The Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan here referred to, the celebrated wit, orator, and dramatist,
Another imitation of Moore's style is given in The Book of Ballads, edited by Bon Gaultier, and published by William Blackwood & Sons. These Ballads were written by Professor W. E. Aytoun, and Theodore Martin. A few of them may be considered amusing as parodies, but the greater number are really clever imitations of style, with a little burlesque introduced here and there. Thus, the following would pass very well for one of Moore's lighter songs:
THE BARD OF ERIN'S LAMENT.
Wove around me the spells of his Papbian bower ;
And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind ;
was continually in debt, and as, in addition to being thriftless and extravagant, he was in. temperate, his once handsome features became, in the later years of his life, so bloated, distorted, and discoloured, that he seemed but a hideous caricature of his former selt.
THE SHY BO-PEEP.
(A sea-side fact.) THE shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone,
In a bathing frock you'll find her ; A swinming belt she has girded on,
And a life buoy slung behind her. “Bathe, I wont !” said this maiden shy,
“ Tho' disappointment rankles, “In such a garb some man might spy
My pettitoes and ankles ! Her friends protest, but the task is vain
To make Bo-peep knock under, The frock was never worn again,
For she tore its seams asunder ; And said, “No more embarrass me
“ Thou cumbersome monstrosity! "I'll bathe 'au naturel' and free In despite of curiosity!"
While life was mine, the little hour
In drinking still unvaried flew ;
Or as the rainbow drinks the dew;
Or flushing sun inhales the sea:
And Bacchus was outdone by me!
“I'll example you with thievery.
The moon into salt tears.
The heavens carouse each day a cup,
Lord ROCHESTER (Died 1680).
ANACREON'S ODE XXI.
T. MOORE. Moore has been often accused of plagiarism, and more often perhaps in connection with the above translation from Anacreon than
any other poem. A few examples of the versions of earlier writers will show how far the charge can be substantiated.
Pierre de Ronsard (who died in 1585) wrote a version, which, given in the old orthography, runs thus:
“ La terre, les eaux va boivant.
Pourquoy donc ne boirons nous pas ?" Capilupus imitated the ode, in an epitaph on a drunkard, which has thus been rendered ;
THE THIRSTY EARTH.
ABRAHAM COWLEY (Died 1667.)
Why, man ofmorals, tell me why? Whilst referring to Thomas Moore's plagiarisms mention must be made of an article on the subject contained in Fraser's Magazine,
Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms, Or if bound, it should only be bound in our arms.
Wit restored. In several selict poems. 1658. “A woman is a book, and often found To prove far better in the sheets inan bound; No marvail, then why men take such delight Above all things to study in the night,”
June 1841. It is too long to quote in full, but some of its principal statements may be given:
“Moore's plagiarisms are intolerable. There is not a single original thought, conception, metaphor, or image, in the whole range of his works,-from the Posthumous Poems of Tom Little to his last dying speech--the Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion. Even the title of this nonsense is stolen from Erasmus's Peregrinatio Religionis ergo. The man is an indefatigable thief. He has laid under contribution every imaginable book, from the biography of his namesake, Tom Thumb, to the portly folios oi the fathers of the church. Perfectly unscrupulous in his marauding expeditions, and impartial in his attacks, he is found at one moment rifling a saint, and in the next pillaging a sinner. You have asked me for some specimens of his plagiarisms. You shall have them. Time will permit me to expose only a very few, so I shall plunge at once in medias
And Paradise be as he paints,
I'd worship the eyes of his saints.'
And you're in fault as well as I ;
To let your mother tell a lie." This is plagiarised from an old collection of English epigrams published in 1785 :
" The lying world says naughty words
Of you and I, my dearest love ;
Let 'em no longer liars prove."
LITTLE'S POEMS. To Julia
Lloyd. “Must thou whose judgment dull and cool Is muddy as the stagnant pool.”
Cawthorne. “ However, when the sprightly bowl Had thaw'd the ice about the soul,"
MOORE'S MELODIES. " And when he said, Heaven rest her soul Round the lake-like music stole, And her ghost was seen to glide Smiling o'er th: fatal tide.''
Kirke White. Gondoline. " The maid was seen no more ; but oft
Her ghost is known to glide
Along the ocean's tide."
To write my name for ever there."
“With what strange raptures would my soul be blest,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace."
" Alas! we two
Dryden. All for Love, act iii., sc. 3.
LITTLE'S POEMS. “Oh, shall we not say thou art Love's duodecimo; Few can be prettier, none can be less, you know,
MOORE'S MELODIES. "My only book
Were woman's looks,
Excels the precious stone,
To read or look upon.'
MOORE'S MELODIES. “No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go tell our invaders, the Danes,
Addison. Cato, act ii. sc. I.
As if the loved tenant lay dead ;
the young false one had fled.
My very worst pains into bliss ;
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.
“Vic. Master, here's her lute flung in a corner !
Oh, Master Cranwell !
What pleasant, strange airs, have they jointly rung!" These are specimens of Moore's rogueries; and now having heard them, will you not agree with me in the propriety of addressing him with the same compliment which Homer pays to Mercury :
“Immortal honour awaits thee, oh, Thomas Little! for thou shalt be known to all posterity as the chief of thieves."
MOORE'S MELODIES. “ Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd, Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd ; You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will. But the scent of the roses will hang round it still."
Sir John Suckling Brennoralt, act v. - Thou motion'st well, nor have I taken leave. It keeps a sweetness yet,
(Kisses her]. As stills from roses when the flowers are gone. Philip Massinger. Roman Actor, act iv. sc. 2.
“ But that thou, whom oft I've seen
MOORE'S MELODIES. “As a beam o'er the face of the waters may gloro While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the whale."
James Mervyn. On Shirley's Plays. “ They might, like waters in the sunshine set, Retain his image, not impart his heat.''
LORD BYRON. On page 197 was inserted “ The Enigma on the letter IT,” with several parodies on it. This poem has been generally ascribed to Lord Byron, but from correspondence recently published in “ Notes and Queries” there seems little doubt but that it was written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe. The following imitation of it ap
. peared in The Gownsman (Cambridge) November 1830.
· The moon looks
On many brooks,
Sir William Jones. “ The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night
flowers see but one moon."