by Thomas Hood
Some samples of the storm: — Oh! it was sweet —
To think I had a shelter for my skin,
Culling them through these ‘loopholes of retreat’ —
Which in a little we began to glaze —
Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize!
By which, the cloud had pass’d o’erhead, but play’d
Its crooked fires in constant flashes still,
Just in our rear, as though it had array’d
Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill,
So that it lit the town, and grandly made
The rugged features of the Castle Hill —
Leap, like a birth, from chaos, into light,
And then relapse into the gloomy night —
As parcel of the cloud: — the clouds themselves,
Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting,
Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves,
That Milton’s devils were engaged in blasting. —
We could e’en fancy Satan and his elves
Busy upon those crags, and ever casting
Huge fragments loose, — and that we felt the sound
They made in falling to the startled ground.
And so the tempest scowl’d away, — and soon
Timidly shining through its skirts of jet,
We saw the rim of the pacific moon,
Like a bright fish entangled in a net,
Flashing its silver sides, — how sweet a boon,
Seemed her sweet light, as though it would beget,
With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas —
Peace in the sky — and coolness in the breeze!
Meantime the hail had ceased: — and all the brood
Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains;
At every window, there were maids who stood
Lamenting o’er the glass’s small remains, —
Or with coarse linens made the fractions good.
Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes, —
Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt:
The wind resolved — blowing the candles out.
No house was whole that had a southern front, —
No green-house but the same mishap befell; —
Bow-windows and bell-glasses bore the brunt, —
No sex in glass was spared! — For those who dwelt —
On each hill side, you might have swum a punt
In any of their parlours; — Mrs. Snell
Was slopp’d out of her seat, — and Mr. Hitchin
Had a flow’r-garden wash’d into a Kitchen.
But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaim’d
The recent violence. — Each after each
The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed,
Tapping, like Woodpeckers, the hollow beach.
Howbeit his weather eye the seaman aim’d
Across the calm, and hinted by his speech —
A gale next morning — and when morning broke,
There was a gale— ‘quite equal to bespoke.’
Before high water — (it were better far
To christen it not water then, but waiter,
For then the tide is serving at the bar)
Rose such a swell — I never saw one greater!
Black, jagged billows rearing up in war
Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter,
With lots of froth upon the shingle shed,
Like stout poured out with a fine beachy head.
No open boat was open to a fare,
Or launch’d that morn on seven-shilling trips,
No bathing woman waded — none would dare
A dipping in the wave — but waived their dips,
No seagull ventured on the stormy air,
And all the dreary coast was clear of ships;
For two lea shores upon the river Lea
Are not so perilous as one at sea.
Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene
Before us in such horrid hurly-burly,
A boiling ocean of mix’d black and green,
A sky of copper colour, grim and surly, —
When lo, in that vast hollow scoop’d between
Two rolling Alps of water, — white and curly!
We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming,
Much like a first or last attempt at swimming!
Sometimes a hand — sometimes a little shoe —
Sometimes a skirt — sometimes a hank of hair
Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view,
Sometimes a knee, sometimes a back was bare —
At last a frightful summerset he threw
Right on the shingles. Any one could swear
The lad was dead — without a chance of perjury,
And batter’d by the surge beyond all surgery!
However we snatch’d up the corse thus thrown,
Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it,
And after venting Pity’s sigh and groan,
Then Curiosity began with her fit;
And lo! the features of the Small Unknown!
’Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit! —
And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies,
We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles.
A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave
His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion,
Providing in this world he was to have
A lordship over luck, by whose exertion
He might control the course of cards, and brave
All throws of dice, — but on a sea excursion
The juggling Demon, in his usual vein,
Seized the last cast — and Nick’d him in the main!
LINES TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA
Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,
And tempests make a soda-water sea,
Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,
And think of me!
Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice, —
A wine more praised than it deserves to be!
Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,
And think of me!
Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth,
Making a midnight meal of he and she;
Go where the Lion in his hunger howleth,
And think of me!
Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,
Or lies along at full length like a tree,
Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,
And think of me!
Go where with human notes the Parrot dealeth
In mono-polly-logne with tongue as free,
And like a woman, all she can revealeth,
And think of me! —
Go to the land of muslin and hankeening,
And parasols of straw where hats should be,
Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,
And think of me!
Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills,
And tall bamboos — may none bamboozle thee!
Go gaze upon their Elephants and Castles,
And think of me!
Go where a cook must always be a currier,
And parch the pepper’d palate like a pea, —
Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier,
And think of me!
Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,
Consign’d for wedlock to Calcutta’s quay,
Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,
And think of me!
Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,
Go to the land of pagod and rupee,
Where every black will be your slave and servant,
And think of me! —
SONNET TO A SCOTCH GIRL, WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY FASHION
Well done and wetly, thou Fair Maid of Perth.
Thou mak’st a washing picture well deservin
g
The pen and pencilling of Washington Irving:
Like dripping Naiad, pearly from her birth,
Dashing about the water of the Firth,
To cleanse the calico of Mrs. Skirving,
And never from thy dance of duty swerving —
As there were nothing else than dirt on earth!
Yet what is thy reward? Nay, do not start!
I do not mean to give thee a new damper,
But while thou fillest this industrious part
Of washer, wearer, mangier, presser, stamper,
Deserving better character — thou art
What Bodkin would but call—’ a common tramper.’
SONNET TO A DECAYED SEAMAN
Hail! seventy-four cut down! Hail, Top and Lop:
Unless I’m much mistaken in my notion,
Thou wast a stirring Tar, before that hop
Became so fatal to thy locomotion; —
Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean,
Thou readest still to men a lesson good,
To King and Country showing thy devotion,
By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood!
Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol;
Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg, —
Methinks, — thou Naval History in one Vol. —
A virtue shines, e’en in that timber leg,
For unlike others that desert their Poll,
Thou walkest ever with thy ‘Constant Peg!’
HUGGINS AND DUGGINS
A PASTORAL AFTER POPE
Two swains or clowns — but call them swains —
While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,
For all that tend on sheep as drovers,
Are turned to songsters, or to lovers,
Each of the lass he call’d his dear
Began to carol loud and clear.
First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,
In the way of ancient shepherd men;
Who thus alternate hitch’d in song,
‘All things by turns, and nothing long.’ —
HUGGINS.
Of all the girls about our place,
There’s one beats all in form and face;
Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead
You’ll only find one Peggy Plumstead.
DUGGINS.
To groves and streams I tell my flame;
I make the cliffs repeat her name:
When I’m inspired by gills and noggins,
The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!
HUGGINS.
When I am walking in the grove,
I think of Peggy as I rove.
I’d carve her name on every tree,
But I don’t know my A, B, C.
DUGGINS.
Whether I walk in hill or valley,
I think of nothing else but Sally.
I’d sing her praise, but I can sing
No song, except ‘God save the King.’
HUGGINS.
My Peggy does all nymphs excel,
And all confess she bears the bell, —
Where’er she goes swains flock together, —
Like sheep that follow the bellwether.
DUGGINS.
Sally is tall and not too straight, —
Those very poplar shapes I hate;
But something twisted like an S, —
A crook becomes a shepherdess.
HUGGINS.
When Peggy’s dog her arms emprison,
I often wish my lot was hisn;
How often I should stand and turn,
To get a pat from hands like hern.
DUGGINS.
I tell Sall’s lambs how blest they be,
To stand about and stare at she; —
But when I look, she turns and shies,
And won’t bear none but their sheep’seyes!
HUGGINS.
Love goes with Peggy where she goes, —
Beneath her smile the garden grows;
Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,
‘Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!
DUGGINS.
Where Sally goes it’s always Spring,
Her presence brightens every-thing;
The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is, —
It makes brass farthings look like guineas.
HUGGINS.
For Peggy I can have no joy,
She’s sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,
And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,
As comfortless as sheep with ticks.
DUGGINS.
Sally is ripe as June or May,
And yet as cold as Christmas day;
For when she’s asked to change her lot,
Lamb’s wool, — but Sally, she wool not.
HUGGINS.
Only with Peggy and with health,
I’d never wish for state or wealth;
Talking of having health and more pence,
I’d drink her health if I had fourpence.
DUGGINS.
Oh, how that day would seem to shine,
If Sally’s banns were read with mine;
She cries, when such a wish I carry,
‘Marry come up! ‘but will not marry.
DOMESTIC DIDACTICS BY AN OLD SERVANT
THE BROKEN DISH
What’s life but full of care and doubt,
With all its fine humanities,
With parasols we walk about,
Long pigtails and such vanities.
We plant pomegranate trees and things,
And go in gardens sporting,
With toys and fans of peacock’s wings
To painted ladies courting.
We gather flowers of every hue,
And fish in boats for fishes, Build summer-houses painted blue, —
But life’s as frail as dishes.
Walking about their groves of trees,
Blue bridges and blue rivers,
How little thought them two Chinese,
They’d both be smash’d to shivers!
ODE TO PEACE
WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS’S GRAND ROUT
Oh Peace! oh come with me and dwell —
But stop, for there’s the bell.
Oh Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches,
On Wednesday, when there’s very few
In loft or pew —
Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch’s.
Oh Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage —
Hush! there’s a carriage.
Oh Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods —
The five Miss Woods.
Oh Peace! thou art the Goddess I adore —
There come some more.
Oh Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet —
That’s Lord Drum’s footman, for he loves a riot.
Oh Peace!
Knocks will not cease.
Oh Peace! thou wert for human comfort plann’d —
That’s Weippert’s band.
Oh Peace! how glad I welcome thy approaches —
I hear the sound of coaches.
Oh Peace! oh Peace! — another carriage stops —
It’s early for the Blenkinsops.
Oh Peace! with thee I love to wander.
But wait till I have show’d up Lady Squander;
And now I’ve seen her up the stair,
Oh Peace! — but here comes Captain Hare.
Oh Peace! thou art the slumber of the mind,
Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken, —
If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken, —
Alderman Gobble won’t be far behind.
Oh Peace! serene in worldly shyness, —
Make way there for his Serene Highness!
Oh Peace! if you do not disdain
To dwell amongst the menial train,
I have a silent place, and lone,
That you and I may call our own;
Susan, what business have you in my pantry? —
Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk,
At variance with his wife — Oh Peace!
And that great German, Vander Trunk,
And that great talker, Miss Apreece;
Oh Peace! so dear to poet’s quills —
They’re just beginning their quadrilles
Oh Peace! our greatest renovator; —
I wonder where I put my waiter —
Oh Peace! — but here my Ode I’ll cease;
I have no peace to write of Peace.
A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN
When I reflect, with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summon’d hence —
There’s cook a-calling John.
Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We’re hourly standing at Death’s door —
There’s some one double-knocks.
All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force; —
This flesh of mine will feed the worms —
They’re come to lunch of course.
And when my body’s turn’d to clay,
And dear friends hear my knell,
Oh, let them give a sigh and say —
I hear the upstairs bell.
TO MARY HOUSEMAID
ON VALENTINE’S DAY
Mary, you know I’ve no love-nonsense,
And, though I pen on such a day,
I don’t mean flirting, on my conscience,
Or writing in the courting way.
Though Beauty hasn’t form’d your feature,
It saves you, p’rhaps, from being vain,
And many a poor unhappy creature
