Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works
Page 9
On the old babe-reading,
Beside his open street-and parlour door,
A hideous roar
Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way.
Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed,
Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels
Or Durham feed;
With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils
From nether side of Tweed,
Or Firth of Forth;
Looking half wild with joy to leave the North, —
With dusty hides, all mobbing on together, —
When, — whether from a fly’s malicious comment
Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank;
Or whether
Only in some enthusiastic moment, —
However, one brown monster, in a frisk,
Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,
Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble;
And after a pas seul, — or, if you will, a
Horn-pipe before the basket-maker’s villa,
Leapt o’er the tiny pale, —
Back’d his beefsteaks against the wooden gable,
And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail
Right o’er the page,
Wherein the sage
Just then was spelling some romantic fable.
The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,
Could not peruse, — who could? — two tales at once;
And being huff’d
At what he knew was none of Riquet’s Tuft,
Bang’d-to the door,
But most unluckily enclosed a morsel
Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel: —
The monster gave a roar,
And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,
The little house became a coach once more,
And, like Macheath, “took to the road” again!
Just then, by fortune’s whimsical decree,
The ancient woman stooping with her crupper
Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be,
Was getting up some household herbs for supper;
Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,
And, quaintly wondering if magic shifts
Could o’er a common pumpkin so prevail,
To turn it to a coach; — what pretty gifts
Might come of cabbages, and curly kale;
Meanwhile she never heard her old man’s wail,
Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite
Gone out of sight!
At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,
Weary of sitting on her russet clothing,
And looking round
Where rest was to be found,
There was no house — no villa there — no nothing!
No house!
The change was quite amazing;
It made her senses stagger for a minute,
The riddle’s explication seemed to harden;
But soon her superannuated nous
Explain’d the horrid mystery; — and raising
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,
On which she meant to sup, —
“Well! this is Fairy work! I’ll bet a farden,
Little Prince Silverwings has ketch’d me up,
And set me down in some one else’s garden!”
THE FALL OF THE DEER.
[FROM AN OLD MS.]
NOW the loud Crye is up, and harke!
The barkye Trees give back the Bark;
The House Wife heares the merrie rout,
And runnes, — and lets the beere run out,
Leaving her Babes to weepe, — for why?
She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye,
And see the wild Stag how he stretches
The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches,
Running like one of Human kind
Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind —
As if he had not payde his Bill
For Ven’son, or was owing still
For his two Hornes, and soe did get
Over his Head and Ears in Debt; —
Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye
With his long Legges the while he maye: —
But he is chased, like Silver Dish,
As well as anye Hart may wish
Except that one whose Heart doth beat
So faste it hasteneth his feet; —
And runninge soe, he holdeth Death
Four Feet from him, — till his Breath
Faileth, and slacking Pace at last,
From runninge slow he standeth faste,
With hornie Bayonettes at baye,
To baying Dogges around, and they
Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore,
And goreth them that seeke his Gore,
Whatever Dogge his Horne doth rive
Is dead — as sure as he’s live!
Soe that courageous Hart doth fight
With Fate, and calleth up his might
And standeth stout that he maye fall
Bravelye, and be avenged of all,
Nor like a Craven yeeld his Breath
Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death!
DECEMBER AND MAY.
“Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together.”
SHAKSPEARE.
SAID Nestor, to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day,
“Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes away?
You ought to be more fortified;” “Ah, brute, be quiet, do,
I know I’m not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied as you!
Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard,
You’d die for me you swore, and I — I took you at your word.
I was a tradesman’s widow then — a pretty change I’ve made;
To live, and die the wife of one, a widower by trade!”
“Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober truth,
You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth;
Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me you
huff.”
“Why, yes,” she said, “and so I do — but you’re not old enough!’”
“Come, come, my dear, let’s make it up, and have a quiet hive;
I’ll be the best of men, — I mean, — I’ll be the best alive!
Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core.” —
“I thank ye, Sir, for telling me — for now I’ll grieve the more!”
A WINTER NOSEGAY.
O, WITHER’D winter Blossoms,
Dowager-flowers, — the December vanity.
In antiquated visages and bosoms, —
What are ye plann’d for,
Unless to stand for
Emblems, and peevish morals of humanity?
There is my Quaker Aunt,
A Paper-flower, — with a formal border
No breeze could e’er disorder,
Pouting at that old beau — the Winter Cherry,
A pucker’d berry;
And Box, like tough-liv’d annuitant, —
Verdant alway —
From quarter-day even to quarter-day;
And poor old Honesty, as thin as want,
Well named — God-wot;
Under the baptism of the water-pot,
The very apparition of a plant;
And why,
Dost hold thy head so high,
Old Winter-Daisy: —
Because thy virtue never was infirm,
Howe’er thy stalk be crazy?
That never wanton fly, or blighted worm,
Made holes in thy most perfect indentation?
’Tis likely that sour leaf,
To garden thief,
Forcepp’d or wing’d, was never a temptation;
Well, — still uphold thy wintry reputation;
Still shalt thou frown upon all lovers’ trial;
And when, like Grecian maids, young maids of
ours
Converse with flow’rs,
Then thou shalt be the token of denial.
Away! dull weeds,
Born without beneficial use or needs!
Fit only to deck out cold winding-sheets;
And then not for the milkmaid’s funeral bloom,
Or fait Fidele’s tomb ——
To tantalise, — vile cheats!
Some prodigal bee, with hope of after-sweets,
Frigid, and rigid,
As if ye never knew
One drop of dew,
Or the warm sun resplendent;
Indifferent of culture and of care,
Giving no sweets back to the fostering air;
Churlishly independent —
I hate ye, of all breeds!
Yea, all that live so selfishly — to self,
And not by interchange of kindly deeds-
Hence! — from my shelf!
EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP.
IT was a young maiden went forth to ride,
And there was a wooer to pace by her side;
His horse was so little, and hers so high,
He thought his angel was up in the sky,
His love was great tho’ his wit was small:
He bade her ride easy — and that was all.
The very horses began, to neigh, —
Because their betters had nought to say.
They rode by elm and they rode by oak,
They rode by a church-yard, and then he spoke: —
“My pretty maiden, if you’ll agree
You shall always amble through life with me”
The damsel answer’d him never a word,
But kick’d the gray mare, and away she spurr’d.
The wooer still follow’d behind the jade,
And enjoy’d — like a wooer — the dust she made,
They rode thro’ moss, and they rode thro’ moor, —
The gallant behind and the lass before: —
At last they came to a miry place,
And there the sad wooer gave up the chase
Quoth he, “If my nag were better to ride,
I’d follow her over the world so wide.
Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail,
But I’ve lost the last glimpse of the gray mare’s tail!”
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
Cables entangling her,
Shipspars for mangling her,
Ropes, sure of strangling her;
Blocks, over-dangling her;
Tiller to batter her,
Topmast to shatter her,
Tobacco to spatter her;
Boreas blustering,
Boatswain quite flustering,
Thunder-clouds mustering
To blast her with sulphur —
If the deep don’t engulf her;
Sometimes fear’s scrutiny
Pries out a mutiny,
Sniffs conflagration,
Or hints at starvation: —
All the sea-dangers,
Buccaneers, rangers,
Pirates and Sallee-men
Algerine galleymen,
Tornadoes and typhons,
And horrible syphons,
And submarine travels
Thro’ roaring sea-navels.
Everything wrong enough,
Long-boat not long enough,
Vessel not strong enough;
Pitch marring frippery,
The deck very slippery,
And the cabin — built sloping,
The Captain a-toping,
And the mate a blasphemer,
That names his Redeemer, —
With inward uneasiness;
The cook known, by greasiness,
The victuals beslubber’d,
Her bed — in a cupboard;
Things of strange christening,
Snatched in her listening,
Blue lights and red lighs
And mention of dead-lights,
And shrouds made a theme of,
Things horrid to dream of, —
And buoys in the water
To fear all exhort her;
Her friend no Leander,
Herself no sea-gander,
And ne’er a cork jacket
On board of the packet;
The breeze still a-stiffening,
The trumpet quite deafening;
Thoughts of repentance,
And doomsday and sentence;
Everything sinister,
Not a church minister, —
Pilot a blunderer,
Coral reefs under her,
Ready to sunder her;
Trunks tipsy-topsy,
The ship in a dropsy;
Waves oversurging her,
Sirens, a-dirgeing her;
Sharks all expecting her,
Swordfish dissecting her,
Crabs with their hand-vices
Punishing land vices;
Sea-dogs and unicorns,
Things with no puny horns,
Mermen carnivorous —
“Good Lord deliver us!’
THE STAG-EYED LADY.
A MOORISH TALE.
Scheherazade immediately began the following story.
ALI Ben Ali (did you never read
His wond’rous acts that chronicles relate, —
How there was one in pity might exceed
The Sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate
Upon the throne of greatness — great indeed!
For those that he had under him were great —
The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,
Was a Bashaw — Bashaws have horses’ tails.
Ali was cruel — a most cruel one!
’Tis rumoured he had strangled his own mother —
Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done,
’Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother
And sister too — but happily that none
Did live within harm’s length of one another,
Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze
To endless night, and shorten’d the Moon’s days.
Despotic power, that mars a weak man’s wit,
And makes a bad man — absolutely bad,
Made Ali wicked — to a fault:— ’tis fit
Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had
No curb upon his will — no, not a bit —
Wherefore he did not reign well — and full glad
His slaves had been to hang him — but they falter’d
And let him live unhang’d — and still unalter’d,
Until he got a sage-bush of a beard,
Wherein an Attic owl might roost — a trail
Of bristly hair — that, honour’d and unshear’d,
Grew downward like old women and cow’s tail;
Being a sign of age — some gray appear’d,
Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale;
But yet, not so poetic as when Time
Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.
Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex
His royal bosom that he had no son,
No living child of the more noble sex,
To stand in his Morocco shoes — not one
To make a negro-pollard — or tread necks
When he was gone — doom’d, when his days were done,
To leave the very city of his fame
Without an Ali to keep up his name.
Therefore he chose a lady for his love,
Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear;
So call’d, because her lustrous eyes, above
All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear;
Then, through his Muftis piously he strove,
And drumm’d with proxy-prayers Mohammed’s ear:
Knowing a boy for certain must come of it,
Or else he w
as not praying to his Profit.
Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair
Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame:
Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir,
Boy’d up his hopes, and even chose a name
Of mighty hero that his child should bear;
He made so certain ere his chicken came: —
But oh! all worldly wit is little worth,
Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth.
To-morrow came, and with to-morrow’s sun
A little daughter to this world of sins, —
Miss-fortunes never come alone — so one
Brought on another, like a pair of twins:
Twins! female twins! — it was enough to stun
Their little wits and scare them from their skins
To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear,
Pulling his beard because he had no heir.
Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down
This his paternal rage, and thus addrest;
“Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown,
And box the compass of the royal chest?”
“Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own
I love to gaze on! — Pr’ythee, thou hadst best
Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin
Your beard, you’ll want a wig upon your chin!”
But not her words, nor e’en her tears, could slack
The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew:
He call’d his slave to bring an ample sack
Wherein a woman might be poked — a few
Dark grimly men felt pity and look’d black
At this sad order; but their slaveships knew
When any dared demur, his sword so bending
Cut off the “head and front of their offending.”
For Ali had a sword, much like himself,
A crooked blade, guilty of human gore —
The trophies it had lopp’d from many an elf
Were struck at his head-quarters by the score —
Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf,
But jested with it, and his wit cut sore;
So that (as they of Public Houses speak)
He often did his dozen butts a week.
Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears,