by Thomas Hood
On every lip a speechless horror dwelt;
On evry brow the burthen of affliction;
The old Ancestral Spirits knew and felt —
The House’s malediction.
Such earnest woe their features overcast,
They might have stirr’d, or sigh’d, or wept, or spoken;
But, save the hollow moaning of the blast,
The stillness was unbroken.
No other sound or stir of life was there,
Except my steps in solitary clamber,
From flight to flight, from humid stair to stair,
From chamber into chamber.
Deserted rooms of luxury and state,
That old magnificence had richly furnish’d
With pictures, cabinets of ancient date,
And carvings gilt and burnish’d.
Rich hangings, storied by the needle’s art,
With scripture history, or classic fable;
But all had faded, save one ragged part,
Where Cain was slaying Abel.
The silent waste of mildew and the moth
Had marr’d the tissue with a partial ravage; —
But undecaying frown’d upon the cloth
Each feature stern and savage.
The sky was pale; the cloud a thing of doubt;
Some hues were fresh, and some decay’d and duller;
But still the BLOODY HAND shone strangely out
With vehemence of colour!
The BLOODY HAND that with a lurid stain
Shone on the dusty floor, a dismal token,
Projected from the casement’s painted pane,
Where all beside was broken.
The BLOODY HAND significant of crime,
That glaring on the old heraldic banner,
Had kept its crimson unimpair’d by time,
In such a wondrous manner!
O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
The Death Watch tick’d behind the panel’d oak,
Inexplicable tremors shook the arras,
And echoes strange and mystical awoke,
The fancy to embarrass.
Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread,
But thro’ one gloomy entrance pointing mostly,
The while some secret inspiration said
That Chamber is the Ghostly!
Across the door no gossamer festoon
Swung pendulous — no web — no dusty fringes,
No silky chrysalis or white cocoon
About its nooks and hinges. —
The spider shunn’d the interdicted room,
The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banish’d,
And where the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom,
The very midge had vanish’d.
One lonely ray that glanc’d upon a Bed,
As if with awful aim direct and certain,
To show the Bloody Hand in burning red
Embroider’d on the curtain.
And yet no gory stain was on the quilt —
The pillow in its place had slowly rotted; —
The floor alone retain’d the trace of guilt,
Those boards obscurely spotted.
Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence
With mazy doubles to the grated casement —
Oh what a tale they told of fear intense,
Of horror and amazement!
What human creature in the dead of night
Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance?
Had sought the door, the window in his flight,
Striving for dear existence? —
What shrieking Spirit in that bloody room
Its mortal frame had violently quitted? —
Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom,
A ghostly Shadow flitted.
Across the sunbeam, and along the wall,
But painted on the air so very dimly,
It hardly veil’d the tapestry at all,
Or portrait frowning grimly.
O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
A DISCOVERY IN ASTRONOMY
One day — I had it from a hasty mouth,
Accustom’d to make many blunders daily.
And therefore will not name, precisely, South,
Herschell, or Baily —
But one of those great men who watch the skies,
With all their rolling, winking eyes,
Was looking at that Orb whose ancient God
Was patron of the Ode, and Song, and Sonnet,
When thus he musing cried—’ It’s very odd
That no Astronomer of all the squad
Can tell the nature of those spots upon it!’
‘Lord, master!’ muttered John, a liveried elf,
‘To wonder so at spots upon the sun!
I’ll tell you what he’s done —
Freckled hisself!’
A SONG FOR THE MILLION
ON WELHELM’S METHOD
There’s a music aloft in the air
As if Cherubs were humming a song,
Now it’s high, now it’s low, here and there,
There’s a Harmony floating along!
While the steeples are loud in their joy
To the tune of the bell’s ring-a-ding,
Let us chime in a peal, one and all,
For we all should be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
We are Chartists, Destructives and rogues,
We are Radicals, Tories, and Whigs,
We are Churchmen, Dissenters, what not,
We are asses, curs, monkeys and pigs,
But in spite of the slanderous names,
Partisans on each other will fling,
Tho’ in concord we cannot agree,
Yet we all in a chorus may sing
Hullahbaloo!
We may not have a happy New Year,
Be perplex’d by all possible ills —
Find the bread and the meat very dear,
And be troubled with very hard bills. —
Yet like linnets, cock-robins, and wrens,
Larks, and nightingales joyous in
Spring,
Or the finches saluting their hens,
Sure we all should be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
We may have but a Lilliput purse,
And the change in the purse very small,
And our notes may not pass at the
Bank,
But they’re current at Exeter Hall!
Then a fig for foul weather and fogs!
And whatever misfortune may bring,
If we go to the dogs — like the dogs
In a pack we are able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
Though the coat may be worn with a badge —
Or the kerchief no prize for a prig —
Or the shirt never sent to the wash —
There’s the Gamut for little and big!
O then come, rich and poor, young and old,
For of course it’s a very fine thing,
Spite of Misery, Hunger and Cold,
That we all are so able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
There are Demons to worry the rich,
There are monsters totorturethepoor,
There’s the Worm that will gnaw at the heart,
There’s the Wolf that will come to the door!
We may even be short of the cash
For the tax to a queen or a king,
And the broker may sell off our beds,
But we still shall be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
There’s Consumption to wither the weak,
There are fevers that humble the sto
ut —
A disease may be rife with the young,
Or a pestilence walking about —
Desolation may visit our hives,
And old Death’s metaphorical sting
May dispose of the dearest of wives,
But we all shall be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
We may farm, at a very high rent,
And with guano manure an inch deep,
We may sow, whether broadcast or drill,
And have only the whirlwind to reap;
All our corn may be spoil’d in the ear,
And our barns be ignited by Swing,
And our sheep may die off with the rot,
But we all shall be able to sing Hullahbaloo!
Our acquaintance may cut us direct,
Even Love may become rather cold,
And a friend of our earlier years
May look shy at the coat that is old:
We may not have a twig or a straw,
Not a reed where affection may cling,
Not a dog for our love, or a cat,
But we still shall be able to sing, Hullahbaloo!
Some are pallid with watching and want,
Some are burning with blushes of shame;
Some have lost all they had in the world,
And are bankrupts in honour and name.
Some have wasted a fortune in trade —
And by going at all in the ring,
Some have lost e’en a voice in the House;
But they all will be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
Some are deep in the Slough of Despond,
And so sick of the burthen of life,
That they dream of leaps over abridge,
Of the pistol, rope, poison, and knife;
To the Temples of Riches and Fame
We are not going up in a string;
And to some even Heaven seems black,
But we all shall be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
We may give up the struggle with Care,
And the last little hope that would stop,
We may strive with a Giant Despair —
From the very blue sky we may drop,
By some sudden bewildering blow
Stricken down like a bird on the wing,
Or with hearts breaking surely and slow —
But we all shall be able to sing
Hullabbaloo!
Oh! no matter how wretched we be,
How ill-lodg’d, or ill-clad, or ill-fed,
And with only one tile for a roof,
That we carry about on the head:
We may croak with a very bad cold,
Or a throat that’s as dry as a ling,
There’s the street or the stage for us all,
For we all shall be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
There’s a Music aloft in the air,
As if Cherubs were humming a song,
Now it’s high, now it’s low, here and there.
There’s a Harmony floating along!
While the steeples are loud in their joy,
To the tune of the bell’s ring-a-ding,
Let us chime in a peal, one and all,
For we all should be able to sing
Hullahbaloo!
SKIPPING. A MYSTERY
Little Children skip,
The rope so gaily gripping,
Tom and Harry,
Jane and Mary,
Kate, Diana,
Susan, Anna,
All are fond of skipping!
The Grasshoppers all skip,
The early dew-drop sipping,
Under, over,
Bent and clover,
Daisy, sorrel,
Without quarrel,
All are fond of skipping!
The tiny Fairies skip,
At midnight softly tripping;
Puck and Peri,
Never weary,
With an antic
Quite romantic,
All are fond of skipping.
The little Boats they skip,
Beside the heavy Shipping
While the squalling
Winds are calling,
Falling, rising,
Rising, falling,
All are fond of skipping!
The pale Diana skips,
The silver billows tipping,
With a dancing
Lustre glancing
To the motion
Of the ocean —
All are fond of skipping!
The little Flounders skip,
When they feel the dripping;
Scorching, frying,
Jumping, trying
If there is not
Any shying,
All are fond of skipping!
The very Dogs they skip,
While threatened with a whipping,
Wheeling, prancing,
Learning dancing,
To a measure,
What a pleasure!
All are fond of skipping!
The little fleas they skip,
And nightly come a nipping,
Lord and Lady,
Jude and Thady,
In the night
So dark and shady —
All are fond of skipping!
The Autumn Leaves they skip;
When blasts the trees are stripping;
Bounding, whirling,
Sweeping, twirling,
And in wanton
Mazes curling,
All are fond of skipping!
The Apparitions skip,
Some mortal grievance ripping,
Thorough many
A crack and cranny,
And the keyhole
Good as any —
All are fond of skipping!
But oh! how Readers skip,
In heavy volumes dipping!
* * * * * and * * * * *
* * * * and * * * * *
* * * and * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
All are fond of skipping!
A TALE OF TEMPER
Of all cross breeds of human sinners,
The crabbedest are those who dress our dinners;
Whether the ardent fires at which they roast
And broil and bake themselves like
Smithfield martyrs,
Are apt to make them crusty, like a toast,
Or drams, encouraged by so hot a post;
However, cooks are generally Tartars;
And altogether might be safely cluster’d
In scientific catalogues
Under two names, like Dinmont’s dogs —
Pepper and Mustard.
The case thus being very common,
It followed, quite of course, when
Mr. Jervis
Engaged a clever culinary woman,
He took a mere Xantippe in his service —
In fact — her metal not to burnish,
As vile a shrew as Shrewsbury could furnish —
One who in temper, language, manners, looks,
In every respect
Might just have come direct
From him, who is supposed to send us cooks.
The very day she came into her place
She slapp’d the scullion’s face;
The next, the housemaid being rather pert,
Snatching the broom, she ‘treated her like dirt’ —
The third, a quarrel with the groom she hit on —
Cyrus, the page, had half-a-dozen knocks;
And John, the coachman, got a box
He couldn’t sit on. —
Meanwhile, her strength to rally,
Brandy, and ruin, and shrub she drank by stealth,
Besides the Cream of some mysterious Valley
That may, or may not, be the Vale of Health:
At least while credit lasted, or her wealth,
For finding that her blows came only thicker,
Invectives
and foul names but flew the quicker,
The more she drank, the more inclin’d to bicker,
The other servants, one and all,
Took Bible oaths whatever might befal,
Neither to lend her cash, nor fetch her liquor! —
This caused, of course, a dreadful schism,
And what was worse, in spite of all endeavour,
After a fortnight of Tea-totalism,
The Plague broke out more virulent than ever!
The life she led her fellows down the stairs!
The life she led her betters in the parlour!
No parrot ever gave herself such airs,
No pug-dog cynical was such a snarler!
At woman, man, and child, she flew and snapp’d,
No rattlesnake on earth so fierce and rancorous —
No household cat that ever lapp’d
To swear and spit was half so apt —
No bear, sore-headed, could be more cantankerous —
No fretful porcupine more sharp and crabbed —
No wolverine
More full of spleen —
In short, the woman was completely rabid!
The least offence of look or phrase,
The slightest verbal joke, the merest frolic,
Like a snap-dragon set her in a blaze,
Her spirit was so alcoholic!
And woe to him who felt her tongue!
It burnt like caustic — like a nettle stung,
Her speech was scalding, scorching,
— vitriolic!
And larded, not with bacon fat,
Or anything so mild as that,
But curses so intensely diabolic,
So broiling hot, that he, at whom she levell’d,
Felt in his very gizzard he was devil’d!
Often and often Mr. Jervis
Long’d, and yet feared, to turn her from his service;
For why? Of all his philosophic loads
Of reptiles loathsome, spiteful, and pernicious,
Stuff’d Lizards, bottled Snakes, and pickled Toads,
Potted Tarantulas, and Asps malicious,
And Scorpions cured by scientific modes,
