Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Talleyrand to Lord Grenville. A Metrical Epistle

My Lord! though your Lordship repel deviation From forms long establish'd, yet with high consideration, I plead for the honour to hope that no blame Will attach, should this letter begin with my name. I dar'd not presume on your Lordship to bounce, But thought it more exquisite first to announce! My Lord! I've the honour to be Talleyrand, And the letter's from me! you'll not draw back your hand Nor yet take it up by the rim in dismay, As boys pick up ha'pence on April fool-day. I'm no Jacobin foul, or red-hot Cordelier That your Lordship's ungauntleted fingers need fear An infection or burn! Believe me, 'tis true, With a scorn like another I look down on the crew That bawl and hold up to the mob's detestation The most delicate wish for a silent persuasion. A form long-establish’d these Terrorists call Bribes, perjury, theft, and the devil and all! And yet spite of all that the Moralist prates, 'Tis the keystone and cement of civilized States. Those American Reps! And i' faith, they were serious! It shock'd us at Paris, like something mysterious, That men who've a Congress—But no more of 't! I'm proud To have stood so distinct from the Jacobin crowd.        &nbspMy Lord! though the vulgar in wonder be lost at My transfigurations, and name me Apostate, Such a meaningless nickname, which never incens'd me, Cannot prejudice you or your Cousin against me: I'm Ex-bishop. What then? Burke himself would agree That I left not the Church—'twas the Church that left me. My titles prelatic I lov'd and retain'd, As long as what I meant by Prelate remain'd: And tho' Mitres no longer will pass in our mart, I'm episcopal still to the core of my heart. No time from my name this my motto shall sever: 'Twill be Non sine pulvere palma for ever!        &nbspYour goodness, my Lord, I conceive as excessive, Or I dar'd not present you a scroll so digressive; And in truth with my pen thro' and thro' I should strike it; But I hear that your Lordship's own style is just like it. Dear my Lord, we are right: for what charms can be shew'd In a thing that goes straight like an old Roman road? The tortoise crawls straight, the hare doubles about; And the true line of beauty still winds in and out. It argues, my Lord! of fine thoughts such a brood in us To split and divide into heads multitudinous, While charms that surprise (it can ne'er be denied us) Sprout forth from each head, like the ears from King Midas. Were a genius of rank, like a commonplace dunce, Compell'd to drive on to the main point at once, What a plentiful vintage of initiations Would Noble Lords lose in your Lordship's orations. My fancy transports me! As mute as a mouse, And as fleet as a pigeon, I'm borne to the house Where all those who are Lords, from father to son, Discuss the affairs of all those who are none. I behold you, my Lord! of your feelings quite full, 'Fore the woolsack arise, like a sack full of wool! You rise on each Anti-Grenvillian Member, Short, thick and blustrous, like a day in November! Short in person, I mean: for the length of your speeches Fame herself, that most famous reporter, ne'er reaches. Lo! Patience beholds you contemn her brief reign, And Time, that all-panting toil'd after in vain, (Like the Beldam who raced for a smock with her grand-child) Drops and cries: 'Were such lungs e'er assign'd to a man-child?' Your strokes at her vitals pale Truth has confess'd, And Zeal unresisted entempests your breast! Though some noble Lords may be wishing to sup, Your merit self-conscious, my Lord, keeps you up, Unextinguish'd and swoln, as a balloon of paper Keeps aloft by the smoke of its own farthing taper. Ye sixteens of Scotland, your snuffs ye must trim; Your Geminies, fix'd stars of England! grow dim, And but for a form long-establish'd, no doubt Twinkling faster and faster, ye all would go out. Apropos, my dear Lord! a ridiculous blunder Of some of our Journalists caused us some wonder: It was said that in aspect malignant and sinister In the Isle of Great Britain a great Foreign Minister Turn'd as pale as a journeyman miller's frock coat is On observing a star that appear'd in Bootes! When the whole truth was this (O those ignorant brutes!) Your Lordship had made his appearance in boots. You, my Lord, with your star, sat in boots, and the Spanish Ambassador thereupon thought fit to vanish. But perhaps, dear my Lord, among other worse crimes, The whole was no more than a lie of The Times. It is monstrous, my Lord! in a civilis'd state That such Newspaper rogues should have license to prate. Indeed printing in general—but for the taxes, Is in theory false and pernicious in praxis! You and I, and your Cousin, and Abbé Sieyes, And all the great Statesmen that live in these days, Are agreed that no nation secure is from vi'lence Unless all who must think are maintain'd all in silence. This printing, my Lord—but 'tis useless to mention What we both of us think—'twas a curséd invention, And Germany might have been honestly prouder Had she left it alone, and found out only powder. My Lord! when I think of our labours and cares Who rule the Department of foreign affairs, And how with their libels these journalists bore us, Though Rage I acknowledge than Scorn less decorous; Yet their presses and types I could shiver in splinters, Those Printers' black Devils! those Devils of Printers! In case of a peace—but perhaps it were better To proceed to the absolute point of my letter: For the deep wounds of France, Bonaparte, my master, Has found out a new sort of basilicon plaister. But your time, my dear Lord! is your nation's best treasure, I've intruded already too long on your leisure; If so, I entreat you with penitent sorrow To pause, and resume the remainder to-morrow