The Triumphs Of Farce.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of space,
Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny;
And poor human life runs the same sort of race,
Being sad on one side--on the other side, funny.

Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie,
To weep o'er the woes of Macready;--but scarce
Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye,
When lo! we're all laughing in fits at the Farce.

And still let us laugh--preach the world as it may--
Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow;
Heroics are very grand things in their way,
But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.

For instance, what sermon on human affairs
Could equal the scene that took place t'other day
'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs--
The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied,
And whose worship not even among Christians declines,
In our senate thou'st languisht since Sheridan died,
But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits,
And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at!
Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits,
Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave--
A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read;
While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave,
We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.

Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing
To teach other bishops to "seek the right way;"[1]
And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing,
Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.

For our parts, gravity's good for the soul,
Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on,
We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll,"
Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

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