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 by nobs Episcopal.^[1]
"For folks on earth, who've got a store
"Of cast off things they'll want no more,
"Oft send them down, as gifts, you know,
"To a certain Gentleman here below.
"A sign of the times, I plainly see,"
Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he
Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more
"I'll affect a body as before;
"For I think I'd best, in the company
"Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be,
"And glide unseen from See to See."
But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,--
It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw.
For instance, he found Exeter,
Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,--
For love of God? for sake of King?
For good of people?--no such thing;
But to get for himself, by some new trick,
A shove to a better bishoprick.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert,
Much with his money-bags bewildered;
Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese,
Because the rogues showed restlessness
At having too little cash to touch,
While he so Christianly bears too much.
He found old Sarum's wits as gone
As his own beloved text in John,--^[2]
Text he hath prosed so long upon,
That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven,
His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7."

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day,"
Said the weary Saint,--"I must away.
"Tho' I own I should like before I go
"To see for once (as I'm askt below
"If really such odd sights exist)
"A regular six-fold Pluralist."
Just then he heard a general cry--
"There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!"
"Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow,"
And off he sets with a loud view-hello,
At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can
A glimpse of this singular plural man.
But,--talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird!^[3]
To compare him with Hodgson is absurd.
"Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"--
"He is now at his living at Hillingdon."--
"No, no,--you're out, by many a mile,
"He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."--
"Pardon me, sir; but I understand
"He's gone to his living in Cumberland."--
"God bless me, no,--he cant be there;
"You must try St. George's, Hanover Square."

Thus all in vain the Saint inquired,
From living to living, mockt and tired;--
'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there,
'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere;
Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er
And flitted away to the Stygian shore,
To astonish the natives underground
With the comical things he on earth had found.

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

Oh! Doubt Me Not.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Rosa.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Fear Not That, While Around Thee.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How To Make A Good Politician.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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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...

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

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 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

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 IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
    With hot effusions--hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
    To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,^[1]
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this,
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
    Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
    Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell
    To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
    Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:--
Of ten whole bis...

Thomas Moore