And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off, Which, if they got, Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh, And cried, "O, happy, happy fly! How I do envy you your lot!" Each moment did his appetite grow stronger; His bowels yearned; At length he could not bear it any longer, But on all sides his looks he turned, And, finding that the coast was clear, he quaffed Scudding from church, the farmer's wife Flew to the dairy, But stood aghast, and could not, for her life, Until she summoned breath enough to mutter, · And, shortly, with a face of scarlet, The vixen-for she was a vixen - flew Asking the when, and where, and how, and who Had gulped her cream, nor left an atom ; "The flies, you rogue! the flies, you guzzling rogue ! Behold, your whiskers still are covered thickly. Thief! liar! villain! gormandizer! hog! I'll make you tell another story quickly." So out she bounced, and brought, with loud alarms, Two stout gens-d'armes, Who bore him to the judge With angry, bottle nose Like a red cabbage rose, While lots of white ones flourished on his wig. Looking at once both stern and wise, He turned to the delinquent, 1 And 'gan to question him, and catechize Still the same dogged answers rise "The flies, my Lord! the flies, the flies!" "Psha!" quoth the judge, half peevish and half pompous, "Why, you're non compos; You should have watched the bowl, as she desired, And killed the flies, you stupid clown." "What! is it lawful, then," the dolt inquired, "To kill the flies in this here town?" "The man's an ass! a pretty question this! To be sure it is. You've my authority, whene'er you meet 'em, "Zooks!" cried the rustic, "I'm right glad to hear it. That stole the cream! Let me come near it." And, aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows For the same catapult completely mashed THOMAS MOORE. Thomas Moore was born in Dublin in 1779, and was educated in the university of that city. He went to London in 1799 to read law, and the year after published his translation of Anacreon. His first original poems were published under the name of Thomas Little; they were grossly indelicate, and the poet, it is believed, was afterwards quite ashamed of them. He was soon after sent to Bermuda in an official capacity, and remained there over a year, during which time his pen was busy. On his return he wrote several pungent political satires in the interest of the Whig party. Next appeared his best and most famous productions, the Irish Melodies, which are pervaded by an intense national feeling, and marked by an uncommon felicity of phrase, as well as by a strong musical rhythm. They were written for favorite native airs, and are now firmly established among the folk-songs of Ireland. Lalla Rookh was published in 1817. It is full of Oriental learning, - rather overladen with it, in fact, — but the story connecting the several parts is gracefully told, and there are many passages of great beauty and power throughout the whole poem. An occasional preference for tinsel, in place of buliion, easily passed over by romantic persons of a certain age, gives the maturer critic a twinge in reading; and it may be pretty safely assumed that in any house the copy of Lalla Rookh, in which the gray-beard once delighted, has now found its way into the book-shelves of the coming generation. Moore made a visit to Paris in company with Rogers, and, two years later, travelled to Italy with Lord John Russell, at which time he visited Lord Byron in Venice. Returning, he stopped at Paris, and remained there until 1822. His subsequent works were, The Loves of the Angels, an Eastern story; the Life of Byron, and the Life of Sheridan, and The Epicurean. A complete edition of his works, in ten volumes, was issued in 1842. He died in 1852-dying, as Dean Swift said, like a cedar, from the top downwards. Moore certainly possessed many remarkable traits of mind; but he was animated rather than brilliant, fanciful rather than imaginative, prone to indulge in a tawdry excess of ornament, and in a juvenile exuberance of feeling which seems an affectation, whether real or not. But on his native soil his step was firm and his eye clear. His patriotic songs are not only the best in Ireland's history, but they may challenge comparison with those of any nation. The poet was an amiable person, fond of society, and especially proud of his titled friends. His Memoirs, edited by Lord John Russell, from which much was expected, proved to be quite void of interest. PARADISE AND THE PERI. ONE morn a Peri at the gate "How happy," exclaimed this child of air, 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall: "Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; How the waters of heaven outshine them all. "Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years One minute of heaven is worth them all." The glorious Angel who was keeping From Eden's fountain, when it lies "Nymph of a fair but erring line," Gently he said, "one hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, 'The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this eternal gate The gift that is most dear to Heaven.' Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin : 'Tis sweet to let the pardoned in.” Rapidly as comets run To the embraces of the Sun, And, lighted earthward by a glance But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heaven? "I know 1 The blue campac. I know where the Isles of Perfume are, The jewelled cup of their King Jamshid, But gifts like these are not for the sky. While thus she mused, her pinions fanned But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood; the smell of death Mingled his taint with every breath He comes, and India's diadems Lie scattered in his ruinous path. His bloodhounds he adorns with gems Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and loved sultana; 1 The ruins of Persepolis. 2 The banyan tree. * Mahmood, conqueror of India. |