NUMBER XIX.
LETTER FROM THE RT. HON. LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, TO THE EARL OF SALISBURY.
MY LORD, Being informed from undoubted authority, that the learned Pierot, whom your Lordship has thought proper to nominate to the dignity of your Assessor, knows no language but his own, it seemed to me probable he might not understand Irish.—Now as I recollect my last Ode to have proceeded on the orthography of that kingdom, I thought his entire ignorance of the tongue might perhaps be some hindrance to his judgment, upon its merit. On account of this unhappy ignorance, therefore, on the part of the worthy Buffo, of any language but Italian, I have taken the liberty to present your Lordship and him with a second Ode, written in English; which I hope he will find no difficulty in understanding, and which certainly has the better chance of being perfectly correct in the true English idiom, as it has been very carefully revised and altered by my worthy friend, Mr. Henry Dundas. I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship’s devoted servant, MOUNTMORRES.
* * * * *
ODE,
By the RT. HON. HARVEY REDMOND MORRES, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, OF THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND, &c.
I.
Ye gentle Nymphs, who rule the Song,
Who stray Thessalian groves among,
With forms so bright and airy;
Whether you pierce Pierian shades, }
Or, less refin’d, adorn the glades, }
And wanton with the lusty blades }
Of fruitful Tipperary;
Whether you sip Aonias’ wave,
Or in thy stream, fair Liffy, lave;
Whether you taste ambrosial food;
Or think potatoes quite as good,
Oh, listen to an Irish Peer,
Who has woo’d your sex for many a year.
II.
Gold!—thou bright benignant pow’r!
Parent of the jocund hour,
Say, how my breast has heav’d with many a storm,
When thee I worship’d in a female form!
Thou, whose high and potent skill,
Turns things and persons at thy will!
Thou, whose omnipotent decree,
Mighty as Fate’s eternal rule,
Can make a wise man of a fool,
And grace e’en loath’d deformity:
Can straitness give to her that’s crook’d,
And Grecian grace to nose that’s hook’d;
Can smooth the mount on Laura’s back,
And wit supply to those that lack:
Say, and take pity on my woes,
Record my throbs, recount my throes;
How oft I sigh’d,
How oft I dy’d:
How oft dismiss’d,
How seldom kiss’d;
How oft, fair Phyllida, when thee I woo’d
With cautious foresight all thy charms I view’d.
O’er many a sod,
How oft I trod,
To count thy acres o’er;
Or spent my time,
For marle or lime,
With anxious zeal to bore[1]!
How Cupid then all great and powerful sate,
Perch’d on the vantage of a rich estate;
When, for his darts, he us’d fair spreading trees,
Ah! who cou’d fail that shot with shafts like these!
III.
Oh, sad example of capricious Fate!
Sue Irishmen in vain!
Does Pompey’s self, the proud, the great,
Fail e’en a maid to gain?
What boots my form so tall and slim,
My legs so stout—my beard so grim?
Why have I Alexander’s bend?
Emblem of conquest never gain’d!
A nose so long—a back so strait—
A chairman’s mien—a chairman’s gait?
Why wasted ink to make orations?
Design’d to teach unlist’ning nations!
Why have I view’d th’ ideal clock[2],
Or mourn’d the visionary hour?
Griev’d to behold with well-bred shock,
The fancy’d pointer verge to four?
Then with a bow, proceed to beg,
A general pardon on my leg—
“Lament that to an hour so late,”
“’Twas mine to urge the grave debate!”
“Or mourn the rest, untimely broken!”
All this to say—all this to do,
In form so native, neat, and new,
In speech intended to be spoken!—
But fruitless all, for neither here or there,
My leg has yet obtain’d me place, or fair!
IV.
Pompeys there are of every shape and size:
Some are the Great, y-clep’d, and some the Little,
Some with their deeds that fill the wond’ring skies,
And some on ladies’ laps that eat their vittle!
’Tis Morres’ boast—’tis Morres’ pride,
To be to both ally’d!
That of all various Pompeys, he
Forms one complete epitome!
Prepar’d alike fierce Faction’s host to fight,
Or, thankful, stoop official crumbs to bite—
No equal to himself on earth to own;
Or watch, with anxious eye, on Treasury-bone!
As Rome’s fam’d chief, imperious, stiff, and proud;
Fawning as curs, when supplicating food!
In him their several virtues all reside,
The peerless Puppy, and of Peers the pride!