Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VII.

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.


Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.--look it thro'--
Very sorry--but can't undertake--'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir!--would get up prodigiously well--
Its only defect is--it never would sell.
And tho' Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.

    Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read--
Tho' the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are fled,
Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it!

    However, Sir--if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible--we are your men.

    Since the Chevalier Carr^[1] took to marrying lately,
The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly--
No job, Sir, more easy--your Country once planned,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.

    An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell--
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.
Or--supposing you've nothing original in you--
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,
You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia!^[2]
(Mind--not to her dinners--a second-hand Muse
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)
Or--in case nothing else in this world you can do--
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not review!

    Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,
We've a Scheme to suggest--Mr. Scott, you must know,
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row.^[3])
Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,
Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town;
And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.
Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to meet him;
Who by means of quick proofs--no revises--long coaches--
May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.
Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,
He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.
Such, Sir, is our plan--if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week.
At present, no more--in reply to this Letter,
A line will oblige very much
            Yours, et cetera.

Temple of the Muses.

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

To Julia. In Allusion To Some Illiberal Criticisms.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

From Life Without Freedom.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., To The Lord Viscount Castlereagh.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Hymn Of A Virgin Of Delphi, At The Tomb Of Her Mother.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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Literary Advertisement.

Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season,
    No matter which party, so faithful to neither;
Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.
    Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics;
    Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;
They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics,
    And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools--
    He can study high life in the King's Bench community;
Aristotle could scarce keep him more within rules,
    And of place he at least must adhere to the unity.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age
    To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher)
Will meet with e...

Thomas Moore

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY---.


My dear Lady---! I've been just sending out
About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout--
(By the by, you've seen "Rokeby"?--this moment got mine--
The "Mail-Coach Edition"--prodigiously fine!)
But I can't conceive how in this very cold weather
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.

(Apropos--you'd have thought to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright;
Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of thieves and chief-usher of ghosts!)

    But, my dear Lady----, can't you hit on some noti...

Thomas Moore

The Fudges In England. Letter VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, To Her Cousin, Miss Kitty ----.

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
    While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
    To wake to light each diamond eye,
    And let loose every florid sigh!

Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they've lain--
    THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!--
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
    The language of their PARENT SEA
(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek),
Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
    They'll thunder loud and long as HE!

Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,
    Young fires--

    I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE

Thomas Moore

Thoughts On Patrons, Puffs, And Other Matters. In An Epistle From Thomas Moore To Samuel Rogers.

What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,
    And, better still, a man of guineas,
To talk of "patrons," in these times,
    When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,
And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page
    Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no--those times are past away,
    When, doomed in upper floors to star it.
The bard inscribed to lords his lay,--
    Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.
No more he begs with air dependent.
His "little bark may sail attendant"
    Under some lordly skipper's steerage;
But launched triumphant in the Row,
Or taken by Murray's self in tow.
    Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whiskt from England by the gale.
But bears on board some autho...

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

Parody Of A Celebrated Letter.

^[1]


At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night
When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
        *        *        *        *
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs are decided--
(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion)--
For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question,
I th...

Thomas Moore