Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hood
Page 98
That touseless man, and poor!
‘Yea, this recumbent rugged trunk,
That lies so long and prone,
With many a fallen acorn-cup,
And mast, and firry cone —
This rugged trunk shall hold its share
Of mortal flesh and bone!
‘A Miser hoarding heaps of gold,
But pale with ague-fears —
A Wife lamenting love’s decay,
With secret cruel tears,
Distilling bitter, bitter drops
From sweets of former years —
‘A Man within whose gloomy mind,
Offence had darkly sunk,
Who out of fierce Revenge’s cup
Hath madly, darkly drunk —
Grief, Avarice, and Hate shall sleep
Within this very trunk!
‘This massy trunk that lies along,
And many more must fall —
For the very knave
Who digs the grave,
The man who spreads the pall,
And he who tolls the funeral bell,
The Elm shall have them all! —
‘The tall abounding Elm that grows
In hedgerows up and down;
In field and forest, copse and park,
And in the peopled town,
With colonies of noisy rooks
That nestle on its crown.
‘And well th’ abounding Elm may grow
In field and hedge so rife,
In forest, copse, and wooded park,
And mid the city’s strife,
Shall end a human life!’
The Phantom ends: the shade is gone;
The sky is clear and bright;
On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree,
There glows a ruddy light;
And bounding through the golden fern
The Rabbit comes to bite.
The Thrush’s mate beside her sits
And pipes a merry lay; —
The Dove is in the evergreens;
And on the Larch’s spray
The Fly-bird flutters up and down,
To catch its tiny prey.
The gentle Hind and dappled Fawn
Are coming up the glade;
Each harmless furr’d and feather’d, thing
Is glad, and not afraid —
But on my sadden’d spirit still
The Shadow leaves a shade.
A secret, vague prophetic gloom,
As though by certain mark
I knew the fore-appointed Tree,
Within whose rugged bark
This warm and living frame shall find
Its narrow house and dark.
That mystic Tree which breathed to me
A sad and solemn sound,
That sometimes murmur’d overhead
And sometimes underground;
Within that shady Avenue
Where lofty Elms abound.
RONDEAU
To-day it is my natal day,
And threescore years have pass’d away,
While Time has turn’d to silver grey
My hairs.
Pursuing pleasure, love, and fun,
A longish course I’ve had to run,
And, thanks to Fortune, I have won
My hares.
But now, exhausted in the race,
No longer I can go the pace,
And others must take up the chase —
My heirs!
EPIGRAM ON A CERTAIN HERO AND HEROINE
In raising names to noble rank
Not always true desert prevails;
But Honour’s self may take delight
In hoisting such top-gallant Sales!
ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE
AUGUST 2, 1843, BY MRS. WARNER
Hush! not a sound! no whisper! no demur!
No restless motion! no intrusive stir!
But with staid presence, and a quiet breath,
One solemn moment dedicate to death! — [A Pause.
For now no fancied miseries bespeak
The panting bosom and the wetted cheek;
No fabled tempest, or dramatic wreck,
Nor royal sire washed from the mimic deck,
And dirged by sea nymphs in his briny grave: —
Alas! deep, deep beneath the sullen wave —
His heart, once warm and throbbing as your own,
Now cold and senseless as the shingle-stone!
His lips — so eloquent! — choked up with sand!
The bright eye glazed, and the impressive hand
Idly entangled in the ocean weed —
Full fathom five, A FATHER lies indeed!
Yes, where the foaming billows roam the while
Around the rocky Ferns and Holy Isle,
Deaf to their roar, as to the dear applause
That greets deserving in the Drama!s cause —
Blind to the horrors that appal the bold —
To all he hoped, or fear’d, or prized, of old,
To love — and love’s deep agony — a-cold!
He who could move the passions — mov’d by none,
Drifts an unconscious corse! — Poor Elton’s race is run!
Mourn for the dead! Yet not alone for him,
O’er whom the cormorant and gannet swim;
Weep for the dead! yet do not merely weep
For him who slumbers in the oozy deep:
But, like Grace Darling, in her little boat,
Stretch forth a saving hand to those who float,
The Orphan Seven! so prematurely hurl’d
Amidst the surges of this stormy world,
And struggling — save your pity take their part —
With breakers huge enough to break the heart!
SONNET. MY HEART IS SICK WITH LONGING, THO’ I FEED
My heart is sick with longing, tho’ I feed
On hope, Time goes with such a heavy pace
That neither gives nor takes from thy embrace,
As if he slept, forgetting his old speed:
For as in sunshine only we can read
The march of minutes on the dial’s face;
So in the shadows of this lonely place,
There is no love, and time is dead indeed!
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart,
Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies,
It seems we only meet to tear apart,
With aching hands, and lingering of eyes —
Alas! alas! that we must learn hours’ flight,
By the same light of love that makes them bright!
A DROP OF GIN
Gin! Gin! a Drop of Gin!
What magnified Monsters circle therein!
Ragged, and stained with filth and mud,
Some plague-spotted, and some with blood!
Shapes of Misery, Shame, and Sin!
Figures that make us loathe and tremble,
Creatures scarce human that more resemble
Broods of diabolical kin,
Ghoule and Vampyre, Demon and Jin!
Gin! Gin! a Drop of Gin! —
The dram of Satan! the liquor of Sin! —
Distill’d from the fell
Alembics of Hell,
By Guilt and Death, his own brother and twin!
That man might fall
Still lower than all
The meanest creatures with scale and fin.
But hold — we are neither Barebones nor Prynne,
Who lash’d with such rage
The sins of the age; —
Then, instead of making too much of din,
Let Anger be mute,
And sweet Mercy dilute,
With a drop of Pity, the Drop of Gin!
Gin! Gin! a Drop of Gin! —
When darkly Adversity’s day’s set in,
And the friends and peers
Of earlier years
Prove warm without, but cold within,
> And cannot retrace —
A familiar face
That’s steep’d in poverty up to the chin; —
But snub, neglect, cold-shoulder, and cut
The ragged pauper, misfortune’s butt,
Hardly acknowledg’d by kith and kin,
Because, poor rat!
He has no cravat;
A seedy coat, and a hole in that! —
No sole to his shoe, and no brim to his hat;
Nor a change of linen — except his skin; —
No gloves — no vest,
Either second or best;
And what is worse than all the rest,
No light heart, tho’ his breeches are thin,
While Time elopes
With all golden hopes,
And even with those of pewter and tin,
The brightest dreams,
And the best of schemes,
All knocked down, like a wicket by Mynn,
Each castle in air
Seized by Giant Despair,
No prospect in life worth a minikin pin,
No credit — no cash,
No cold mutton to hash,
No bread — not even potatoes to mash;
No coal in the cellar, no wine in the binn,
Smash’d, broken to bits,
With judgments and writs,
Bonds, bills, and cognovits distracting the wits,
In the webs that the spiders of
Chancery spin,
Till weary of life, its worry and strife,
Black visions are rife of a razor, a knife,
Of poison — a rope—’ louping over a linn.’ —
Gin! Gin! a Drop of Gin!
Oh! then its tremendous temptations begin,
To take, alas!
To the fatal glass,
And happy the wretch that it does not win
To change the black hue —
Of his ruin to blue —
While Angels sorrow, and Demons grin —
And lose the rheumatic
Chill of his attic
By plunging into the Palace of Gin!
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”
“Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
“Work — work — work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
“Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you’re wearing out,
But human creatures’ lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
“Work — work — work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shatter’d roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
“Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,
As well as the weary hand.
“Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!”
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”
THE PAUPER’S CHRISTMAS CAROL
Full of drink and full of meat,
On our Saviour’s natal day,
Charity’s perennial treat;
Thus I heard a Pauper say: —
‘Ought not I to dance and sing
Thus supplied with famous cheer? Heigho!
I hardly know —
Christmas comes but once a year!
‘After labour’s long turmoil,
Sorry fare and frequent fast,
Two-and-fifty weeks of toil,
Pudding-time is come at last!
But are raisins high or low,
Flour and suet cheap or dear?
Heigho!
I hardly know —
Christmas comes but once a year.
‘Fed upon the coarsest fare
Three hundred days and sixty-four
But for one on viands rare,
Just as if I wasn’t poor!
Ought not I to bless my stars,
Warden, clerk, and overseer?
Heigho!
I hardly know —
Christmas comes but once a year.
‘Treated like a welcome guest,
One of Nature’s social chain,
Seated, tended on, and press’d —
But when shall I be press’d again,
Twice to pudding, thrice to beef,
A dozen times to ale and beer?
Heigho!
I hardly know,
Christmas comes but once a year.
‘Come to-morrow how it will;
Diet scant and usage rough,
Hunger once has had its fill,
Thirst for once has had enough,
But shall I ever dine again?
Or seer another feast appear?
Heigho!’
I only know
Christmas comes but once a year.
Hopes revive and spirits flow —
Feeling as I have not felt
Since a dozen months ago —
Glad enough to sing a song —
To-morrow shall I volunteer?
Heigho!
I hardly know —
Christmas comes but once a year.
‘Bright and blessed is the time,
Sorrows end and joys begin,
While the bells with merry chime
Ring the Day of Plenty in!
But the happy tide to hail,
With a sigh or with a tear,
Heigho!
I hardly know —
Christmas comes but once a year!’
THE MARY
A SEA-SIDE SKETCH
Lov’st thou not, Alice, with the early tide
To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast,
And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,
Like God’s own beadsman going forth to cast
His net into the deep, which doth provide
Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast
Bosom like Charity’s, for all who seek
And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?
The sea is bright with morning, but the dark
Seems still to linger on his broad black sail,
For it is early hoisted, like a mark
For the low sun to shoot at with his pale
And level beams: — All round the shadowy bark
The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale
Swells in her canvas, till the waters show
The keel’s new speed, and whiten at the bow.
Then look abaft — (for thou canst understand
That phrase) — and there he sitteth at the stern,
Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand,
The hardy Fisherman. Thou may’st discern
Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann’d
And honest countenance that he will turn
To look upon us, with a quiet gaze —
As we are passing on our several ways.
So, some ten days ago, on such a morn,
The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil
Amongst the finny race: ’twas when the corn