The Millennium.

A poem by Thomas Moore



A millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it--
As matters both public and private now go,
With multitudes round us all starving or near it.
A good, rich Millennium will come à-propos.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,
Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,
A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold,
Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags--

A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound--
A celestial Cocaigne on whose buttery shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,
As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian,
Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach
Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision
Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;--

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we
May even in our own times a Jubilee share.
Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee,
And so often postponed, we began to despair.

There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene
For the man who must bring the Millennium about;
There's Faber whose pious productions have been
All belied ere his book's first edition was out;--

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P.,
Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat,
And, each day of his life sat expecting to see
A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3]

There was also--but why should I burden my lay
With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving,
When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way
To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving.

Go on, mighty man,--doom them all to the shelf,--
And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce,
Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself
Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once.

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