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Moore, Thomas, 1779-1852

"The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Collected by Himself with Explanatory Notes"


Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damned beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.



ODE TO A HAT.

--_altum aedificat caput_."
JUVENAL
1826.

Hail, reverent Hat!--sublime mid all
The minor felts that round thee grovel;--
Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call
While meaner mortals call the "shovel."
When on thy shape (like pyramid,
Cut horizontally in two)[1]
I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid
Of stalls and mitres bless my view!
That brim of brims so sleekly good--
Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down,
But looking (as all churchmen's should)
Devoutly upward--towards the _crown_.
Gods! when I gaze upon that brim,
So redolent of Church all over,
What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,--
Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim,
With ducklings' wings--around it hover!
Tenths of all dead and living things,
That Nature into being brings,
From calves and corn to chitterlings.
Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks,
The very cock most orthodox.
To _which_ of all the well-fed throng
Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong?
Thou'rt _not_ Sir Harcourt Lees's--no-
For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em:
And hats, on heads like his, would grow
Particularly _harum-scarum_.


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