Moore has happily expressed the pathetic morals, gayeties and tendernesses of sentiment. But we think he has been still more happy in those humorous, satirical, wit-elaborated performances in which it was his wont to assail the public men and things of English government and English society. His metrical onslaughts on the Tory party, the Prince Regent, the Church Establishment—individually or collectively—have been among the most genial and applauded things he has written. In the other walks of poetry he had overpowering rivals—in this he was unrivaled—“within this circle none durst walk but he.” He was well aware of the power of satire to influence the gravest argument in the world, and felt that A song may reach him who a sermon flies. Much of his sarcasm was launched against the English Church Establishment. Its existence in Ireland has long been a just cause of popular complaint, and thousands of pamphlets have been written _pro_ and _con_ in the matter. The witty little poet took the hackneyed question, put it into his lyric mill, and having given it a few turns, brought it out in the following manner—intelligible to all comprehensions—answering as well the cause of his Catholic countrymen as the cause of simple truth and justice: A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN. “The longer one lives the more one learns,” Said I, as off to sleep I went, Bemused with thinking of tithe concerns, And reading a book, by the Bishop of Ferns, On the Irish Church Establishment. But lo! in sleep not long I lay When fancy her usual tricks began, And I found myself bewitched away To a goodly city in Hindostan: A city, where he who dares to dine On aught but rice, is deemed a sinner: Where sheep and kine are held divine, And, accordingly, never drest for dinner. But how is this? I wondering cried, As I walked that city, fair and wide, And saw, in every marble street, A row of beautiful butchers’ shops— “What means, for men who can’t eat meat, This grand display of loins and chops?” In vain I asked—’twas plain to see That nobody dared to answer me. So on from street to street I strode: And you can’t conceive how vastly odd The butchers looked: a roseate crew, Inshrined in _stalls_, with naught to do: While some on a _bench_, half dozing, sat, And the sacred cows were not more fat.