St. Jerome On Earth.

FIRST VISIT.

1832.


As St. Jerome who died some ages ago,
Was sitting one day in the shades below,
"I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he,
"And shall now take a trip to earth to see
"How far they agree in their lives and ways
"With our good old bishops of ancient days."

He had learned--but learned without misgivings--
Their love for good living and eke good livings;
Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees)
That good living means claret and fricassees,
While its plural means simply--pluralities.

"From all I hear," said the innocent man,
"They are quite on the good old primitive plan.
"For wealth and pomp they little can care,
"As they all say 'No' to the Episcopal chair;
"And their vestal virtue it well denotes
"That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries,
And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's.
The door was oped by a lackey in lace,
Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?"
"His Grace!" quoth Jerome--for posed was he,
Not knowing what sort this Grace could be;
Whether Grace preventing, Grace particular,
Grace of that breed called Quinquarticular--^[1]

In short he rummaged his holy mind
The exact description of Grace to find,
Which thus could represented be
By a footman in full livery.
At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,
(For dearly the good saint loved his joke)^[2]
And said--surveying, as sly he spoke,
The costly palace from roof to base--
"Well, it isn't, at least, a saving Grace!"
"Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words,
"The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords."

"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son,
"For in my time at least there was but one;
Unless such many-fold priests as these
"Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"^[3]
"No time for gab," quoth the man in lace:
Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face
With a curse to the single knockers all
Went to finish his port in the servants' hall,
And propose a toast (humanely meant
To include even Curates in its extent)
"To all as serves the Establishment."

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XIV. Rome.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Tibullus To Sulpicia.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To .......

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

News For Country Cousins.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

St. Jerome On Earth. Second Visit.

        "This much I dare say, that, since lording and loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. For they preached and lorded not; and now they lord and preach not.... Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve."
        --Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough."


"Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see
How the Church goes on,"--and off set he.
Just then the packet-boat which trades
Betwixt our planet and the shades
Had arrived below with a freight so queer,
"My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"--
For he saw, when nearer he explored,
They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.

"They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all,
"Once worn...

Thomas Moore

Epistle From Erasmus On Earth To Cicero In The Shades.

Southampton.

As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started
By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted
To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,
Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,
And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,
To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years,
I take up my pen, and with news of this earth
Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,
Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,
I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore
You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore.
Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,
To discuss the rich merits of rôtis and stews,
And preferred to all honors of triumph o...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, To Mrs. Elizabeth ----.

How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of, Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;--
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded.)--
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a dear--and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view
Of her history and prospect, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian w...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----; Curate Of ----, In Ireland.

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy.
    Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise--
Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy,
    Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs--
    Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
    And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off--gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,--
Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet,
And warranted godly--to make all complete.

Thomas Moore

Fables For The Holy Alliance. 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--tho' a Tory,
    A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;
Feel how Religion's simple glory
    Is stained by State associations.

When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles,
    Appealed to the benign Divinity;
Then cut them up in protocols,
Made fractions of their very souls--
    All in the name of the blest Trinity;
Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER,
That mighty Northern salamander,^[1]
Whose icy touch, felt all about,
Puts every fire of Freedom o...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter IX. From Larry O'Branigan, To His Wife Judy.

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther,
You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about;
And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther,
Could I manage to lave the contints of it out;
For sure, if it makes even me onaisy,
Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive you crazy.

Oh!    Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!
That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him,
Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood,
And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not even the Flood
Was able to wash away clane from the earth)^[1]
As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth,
Can no more to a great O, before it, purtend,
Than mine can to wear a great Q at its end.

But that's now all over--last night I gev warni...

Thomas Moore