by Thomas Hood
Some moody turns he took, —
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook, —
And, lo! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book!
VIII.
“My gentle lad, what is’t you read —
Romance or fairy fable?
Of is it some historic page,
Or kings and crowns unstable?”
The young boy gave an upward glance, —
“It is ‘The Death of Abel.’”
IX.
The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain, —
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk’d with him of Cain;
X.
And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;
XI.
And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod, —
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!
XII.
He told how murderers walk the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain, —
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain:
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain!
XIII.
“And well,” quoth he, “I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme, —
Woe, woe, unutterable woe, —
Who spill life’s sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder, in a dream!”
XIV.
“One that had never done me wrong —
A feeble man, and old;
I led him to a lonely field, —
The moon shone clear and cold:
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold!”
XV.
“Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, —
And then the deed was done:
There was nothing lying at my foot
But lifeless flesh and bone!”
XVI.
“Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill;
And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still:
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill!”
XVII.
“And, lo! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame; —
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by his hand,
And called upon his name!”
XVIII.
“Oh, God! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain!
But when I touched the lifeless clay,
The blood gush’d out amain!
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!”
XIX.
“My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice:
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil’s price:
A dozen times I groan’d the dead
Had never groan’d but twice!”
XX.
And now, from forth the frowning sky,
From the Heaven’s topmost height,
I heard a voice — the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging Sprite: —
“Thou guilty man! take up thy dead
And hide it from my sight!”
XXI.
“I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream, —
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme: —
My gentle Boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!”
XXII.
“Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,
And vanish’d in the pool;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And wash’d my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young,
That evening in the school.”
XXIII.
“Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim!
I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in Evening Hymn:
Like a Devil of the Pit I seem’d,
‘Mid holy Cherubim!”
XXIV.
“And peace went with them, one and all,
And each calm pillow spread:
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
That lighted me to bed;
And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red!”
XXV.
“All night I lay in agony,
In anguish dark and deep;
My fever’d eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep:
For Sin had render’d unto her
The keys of Hell to keep!”
XXVI.
“All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint,
That rack’d me all the time;
A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime!”
XXVII.
“One stern tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave, —
Still urging me to go and see
The Dead Man in his grave!”
XXVIII.
“Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye;
And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.”
XXIX.
“Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never mark’d its morning flight,
I never heard it sing:
For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.”
XXX.
“With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
I took him up and ran; —
There was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began:
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murder’d man!”
XXXI.
“And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where;
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there:
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare!”
XXXII.
“Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep:
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.”
XXXIII.
“So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
Ay, though he’s buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh, —
The world shall see his bones!”
XXXIV.
“Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream
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Besets me now awake!
Again again, with dizzy brain,
The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer’s at the stake.”
XXXV.
“And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul, —
It stands before me now!”
The fearful Boy look’d up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.
XXXVI.
That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss’d,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk’d between.
With gyves upon his wrist.
VERSES FROM TYLNEY HALL (1834)
CONTENTS
PLAY ON, YE TIMID RABBITS
A DECLARATION
THE STREAMLET
TOM TATTERS’ BIRTHDAY ODE
PLAY ON, YE TIMID RABBITS
Play on, ye timid Rabbits!
For I can see ye run,
Ne’er thinking of a gun,
Or of the ferret’s habits.
Ye sportive Hares! go forcing
The dewdrop from the bent;
My mind is not intent
On greyhounds or on coursing.
Feed on, ye gorgeous Pheasants!
My sight I do not vex —
With cards about your necks,
Forestalling you for presents.
Go gazing on, and bounding,
Thou solitary Deer!
My fancy does not hear
Hounds baying, and horns sounding.
Each furr’d or feather’d creature,
Enjoy with me this earth,
Its life, its love, its mirth,
And die the death of nature! —
A DECLARATION
If to believe that dreams were truth,
And all the fond romance of youth;
Each pictured charm that fancy prized
In one fair form now realized —
If to sum up in that dear scope
My all of joy, my all of hope;
Where faithlessness there could be none,
For all the sex was merg’d in one —
If to be happy in her nearness,
Holding her very silk in dearness;
As if my heart could have no home
But where she was, or was to come —
If from the contact of a finger,
An after-bliss for days could linger,
A feeling kept secure and chaste
Till by the next sweet touch effac’d —
If to pine after pow’r and glory
But for one sake — if in love-story,
To make each tenderest phrase refer
All that is bright and good to her —
If with all thoughts to haunt her bow’r
True as the bee is to the flow’r;
Her image join’d with all day-scheming,
And nightly worshipped in all dreaming —
If these be signs that Love delivers,
I am thy lover, fair Grace Rivers!
THE STREAMLET
STILL glides the gentle streamlet on,
With shifting current new and strange;
The water that was here is gone,
But those green shadows do not change.
Serene, or ruffled by the storm,
On present waves, as on the past,
The mirror’d grove retains its form,
The self-same trees their semblance cast.
The hue each fleeting globule wears,
That drop bequeaths it to the next, —
One picture still the surface bears,
To illustrate the murmur’d text.
So, love, however time may flow,
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee,
One constant image still shall show
My tide of life is true to thee!
TOM TATTERS’ BIRTHDAY ODE
Come all you jolly dogs, in the Grapes, and King’s Head, and Green Man, and Bell taps,
And shy up your hats — if you haven’t hats, your paper and woollen caps,
Shout with me and cry Eureka! by the sweet Parnassian River,
While Echo, in Warner’s Wood replies, Huzza! the young Squire for ever!
And Vulcan, Mars, and Hector of Troy, and Jupiter and his wife,
And Phoebus, from his forked hill, coming down to take a knife,
And Mercury, and piping Pan, to the tune of ‘Old King Cole,’
And Venus the Queen of Love, to eat an ox that was roasted whole.
* * * * *
Sir Mark, God bless him, loves good old times, when beards wag, and every thing goes merry,
There’ll be drinking out of gracecups, and a Boar’s head chewing rosemary,
Maid Marian, and a Morris dance, and acting of quaint Moralities,
Doctor Bellamy and a Hobby horse, and many other Old Formalities.
* * * * *
But there won’t be any Psalm-singing saints, to make us sad of a Monday,
But Bacchus will preach to us out of a barrel, instead of the methodist Bundy.
We’ll drink to the King in good strong ale, like souls that are true and loyal,
And a fig for Mrs. Hanway, camomile, sage and penny-royal;
And a fig for Master Gregory, that takes tipsy folks into custody,
He was a wise man to-morrow, and will be a wiser man yesterday.
* * * * *
Come fill a bumper up, my boys, and toss off every drop of it! —
Here’s young Squire Ringwood’s health, and may he live as long as Jason,
Before Atropos cuts his thread, and Dick Tablet, the bungling mason,
Chips him a marble tea-table, with a marble’ tea-urn a-top of it?
Quoth Tom in Tatters.
HOOD’S OWN: OR, LAUGHTER YEAR TO YEAR (1839)
BEING FORMER RUNNINGS OF HIS COMIC VEIN, WITH AN INFUSION OF NEW BLOOD FOR GENERAL CIRCULATION
CONTENTS
AN ANCIENT CONCERT
SONNET ON STEAM
A REPORT FROM BELOW
ODE TO M. BRUNEL
OVER THE WAY
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH
DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR,TRUTH IN PARENTHESES
EPIGRAMS COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY LATELY PUBLISHED
THE LAST WISH
THE DEVIL’S ALBUM
THE LOST HEIR
JOHN DAY
NUMBER ONE
THE DROWNING DUCKS
SALLY SIMPKIN’S LAMENT
THE FALL
SONNET: ALONG THE WOODFORD ROAD THERE COMES A NOISE
THE STEAM SERVICE
A LAY OF REAL LIFE
A VALENTINE
POEM, — FROM THE POLISH
CONVEYANCING
SONNET. I HAD A GIG-HORSE
EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST
I’M NOT A SINGLE MAN
THE BURNING OF THE LOVE-LETTER
THE APPARITION
LITTLE O’P. — AN AFRICAN FACT
THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL
SEA SONG
STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE
A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE
I’M GOING TO BOMBAY
ODE TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA’S EVE
A BLOW-UP
THE GHOST
ODE TO MADAME HENGLER
THE DOUBLE KNOCK
BAILEY BALLADS
LINES TO MARY
NO. II
NO. III
FRENCH AND ENGLISH
OUR VILLAGE. — BY A VILLAGER
A TRUE STORY
THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD
TO FANNY
POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN
STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS
&nb
sp; SONNET WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE
SONNET. — A SOMNAMBULIST
FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH
THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS
PAIR’D, NOT MATCH’D
THE DUEL. A SERIOUS BALLAD
SONNET TO VAUXHALL
ODE TO MR. MALTHUS
A GOOD DIRECTION
THERE’S NO ROMANCE IN THAT
A WATERLOO BALLAD
SHOOTING PAINS
THE BOY AT THE NORE
LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR
ODE TO ST. SWITHIN
THE SCHOOLMASTER’S MOTTO
THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION
A STORM AT HASTINGS
LINES TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA
SONNET TO A SCOTCH GIRL, WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY FASHION
SONNET TO A DECAYED SEAMAN
HUGGINS AND DUGGINS
DOMESTIC DIDACTICS BY AN OLD SERVANT
ODE TO PEACE
A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN
TO MARY HOUSEMAID
PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT
LITERARY AND LITERAL
LOVE LAYS AND LYRICS
SONNET TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME BILL
LITERARY REMINISCENCES
ODE TO PERRY, THE INVENTOR OF THE PATENT PERRYAN PEN
THE UNDYING ONE
COCKLE v. CACKLE
THE SWEEP’S COMPLAINT
THE SUB-MARINE
DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND
THE KANGAROOS
ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER
SONNET. THE SKY IS GLOWING IN ONE RUDDY SHEET
RONDEAU
SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION
THE POACHER
I CANNOT BEAR A GUN
TRIMMER’S EXERCISE FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN
