Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  Brooklets are not prison’d now,

  But crystal frosts are all agone,

  And that which hangs upon the spray,

  It is no snow, but flow’r of May!

  AUTUMN

  The Autumn skies are flush’d with gold,

  And fair and bright the rivers run;

  These are but streams of winter cold,

  And painted mists that quench the sun.

  In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,

  In secret boughs no bird can shroud;

  These are but leaves that take to wing,

  And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

  ’Tis not trees’ shade, but cloudy glooms

  That on the cheerless valleys fall,

  The flowers are in their grassy tombs,

  And tears of dew are on them all.

  RUTH.

  She stood breast high amid the corn

  Clasp’d by the golden light of morn,

  Like the sweetheart of the sun,

  Who many a glowing kiss had won.

  On her cheek an autumn flush,

  Deeply ripen’d; — such a blush

  In the midst of brown was born,

  Like red poppies grown with corn.

  Round her eyes her tresses fell,

  Which were blackest none could tell,

  But long lashes veil’d a light,

  That had else been all too bright.

  And her hat, with shady brim,

  Made her tressy forehead dim; —

  Thus she stood amid the stooks,

  Praising God with sweetest looks: —

  Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean,

  Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,

  Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

  Share my harvest and my home.

  THE SEA OF DEATH.

  A FRAGMENT.

  —— Methought I saw

  Life swiftly treading over endless space;

  And, at her foot-print, but a bygone pace,

  The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave,

  Swallow’d her steps like a pursuing grave.

  Sad were my thoughts that anchor’d silently

  On the dead waters of that passionless sea,

  Unstirr’d by any touch of living breath:

  Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death,

  Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings

  On crowded carcases — sad passive things

  That wore the thin gray surface, like a veil

  Over the calmness of their features pale.

  And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep

  Like water-lilies on that motionless deep,

  How beautiful! with bright unruffled hair

  On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were

  Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!

  And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,

  Meekly apart, as if the soul intense

  Spake out in dreams of its own innocence:

  And so they lay in loveliness, and kept

  The birth-night of their peace, that Life e’en wept

  With very envy of their happy fronts;

  For there were neighbor brows scarr’d by the brunts

  Of strife and sorrowing — where Care had set

  His crooked autograph, and marr’d the jet

  Of glassy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn,

  And lips that curl’d in bitterness and scorn —

  Wretched, — as they had breathed of this world’s pain,

  And so bequeathed it to the world again,

  Through the beholder’s heart in heavy sighs.

  So lay they garmented in torpid light,

  Under the pall of a transparent night,

  Like solemn apparitions lull’d sublime

  To everlasting rest, — and with them Time

  Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face

  Of a dark dial in a sunless place.

  BALLAD. SHE’S UP AND GONE, THE GRACELESS GIRL.

  She’s up and gone, the graceless girl,

  And robb’d my failing years!

  My blood before was thin and cold

  But now ’tis turn’d to tears; —

  My shadow falls upon my grave,

  So near the brink I stand,

  She might have stay’d a little yet,

  And led me by the hand!

  Aye, call her on the barren moor,

  And call her on the hill:

  ’Tis nothing but the heron’s cry,

  And plover’s answer shrill;

  My child is flown on wilder wings

  Than they have ever spread,

  And I may even walk a waste

  That widen’d when she fled.

  Full many a thankless child has been,

  But never one like mine;

  Her meat was served on plates of gold,

  Her drink was rosy wine;

  But now she’ll share the robin’s food,

  And sup the common rill,

  Before her feet will turn again

  To meet her father’s will!

  I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

  I remember, I remember,

  The house where I was born,

  The little window where the sun

  Came peeping in at morn;

  He never came a wink too soon,

  Nor brought too long a day,

  But now, I often wish the night

  Had borne my breath away!

  I remember, I remember,

  The roses, red and white,

  The violets, and the lily-cups,

  Those flowers made of light!

  The lilacs where the robin built,

  And where my brother set

  The laburnum on his birthday, —

  The tree is living yet!

  I remember, I remember,

  Where I was used to swing,

  And thought the air must rush as fresh

  To swallows on the wing;

  My spirit flew in feathers then,

  That is so heavy now,

  And summer pools could hardly cool

  The fever on my brow!

  I remember, I remember,

  The fir trees dark and high;

  I used to think their slender tops

  Were close against the sky:

  It was a childish ignorance,

  But now ’tis little joy

  To know I’m farther off from Heav’n

  Than when I was a boy.

  BALLAD. SIGH ON, SAD HEART.

  Sigh on, sad heart, for Love’s eclipse

  And Beauty’s fairest queen,

  Though ’tis not for my peasant lips

  To soil her name between:

  A king might lay his sceptre down,

  But I am poor and nought,

  The brow should wear a golden crown

  That wears her in its thought.

  The diamonds glancing in her hair,

  Whose sudden beams surprise,

  Might bid such humble hopes beware

  The glancing of her eyes;

  Yet looking once, I look’d too long,

  And if my love is sin,

  Death follows on the heels of wrong,

  And kills the crime within.

  Her dress seem’d wove of lily leaves,

  It was so pure and fine,

  O lofty wears, and lowly weaves, —

  But hodden-gray is mine;

  And homely hose must step apart,

  Where garter’d princes stand,

  But may he wear my love at heart

  That wins her lily hand!

  Alas! there’s far from russet frieze

  To silks and satin gowns,

  But I doubt if God made like degrees

  In courtly hearts and clowns.

  My father wrong’d a maiden’s mirth,

  And brought her cheeks to blame,

  And all that’s lordly of my birth

  Is my reproach and sha
me!

  ’Tis vain to weep,— ’tis vain to sigh,

  ’Tis vain, this idle speech,

  For where her happy pearls do lie,

  My tears may never reach;

  Yet when I’m gone, e’en lofty pride

  May say, of what has been,

  His love was nobly born and died,

  Though all the rest was mean!

  My speech is rude, — but speech is weak

  Such love as mine to tell,

  Yet had I words, I dare not speak,

  So, Lady, fare thee well;

  I will not wish thy better state

  Was one of low degree,

  But I must weep that partial fate

  Made such a churl of me.

  THE WATER LADY.

  Alas, the moon should ever beam

  To show what man should never see! —

  I saw a maiden on a stream,

  And fair was she!

  I staid awhile, to see her throw

  Her tresses black, that all beset

  The fair horizon of her brow

  With clouds of jet.

  I staid a little while to view

  Her cheek, that wore in place of red

  The bloom of water, tender blue,

  Daintily spread.

  I staid to watch, a little space,

  Her parted lips if she would sing;

  The waters closed above her face

  With many a ring.

  And still I staid a little more,

  Alas! she never comes again!

  I throw my flowers from the shore,

  And watch in vain.

  I know my life will fade away,

  I know that I must vainly pine,

  For I am made of mortal clay,

  But she’s divine!

  THE EXILE.

  The swallow with summer

  Will wing o’er the seas,

  The wind that I sigh to

  Will visit thy trees.

  The ship that it hastens

  Thy ports will contain,

  But me! — I must never

  See England again!

  There’s many that weep there,

  But one weeps alone,

  For the tears that are falling

  So far from her own;

  So far from thy own, love,

  We know not our pain;

  If death is between us,

  Or only the main.

  When the white cloud reclines

  On the verge of the sea,

  I fancy the white cliffs,

  And dream upon thee;

  But the cloud spreads its wings

  To the blue heav’n and flies.

  We never shall meet, love,

  Except in the skies!

  TO AN ABSENTEE.

  O’er hill, and dale, and distant sea,

  Through all the miles that stretch between,

  My thought must fly to rest on thee,

  And would, though worlds should intervene.

  Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks

  The farther we are forced apart,

  Affection’s firm elastic links

  But bind the closer round the heart.

  For now we sever each from each,

  I learned what I have lost in thee;

  Alas, that nothing else could teach

  How great indeed my love should be!

  Farewell! I did not know thy worth;

  But thou art gone, and now ’tis prized:

  So angels walk’d unknown on earth,

  But when they flew were recognized!

  SONG. THE STARS ARE WITH THE VOYAGER.

  The stars are with the voyager

  Wherever he may sail;

  The moon is constant to her time;

  The sun will never fail;

  But follow, follow round the world,

  The green earth and the sea,

  So love is with the lover’s heart,

  Wherever he may be.

  Wherever he may be, the stars

  Must daily lose their light;

  The moon will veil her in the shade;

  The sun will set at night.

  The sun may set, but constant love

  Will shine when he’s away;

  So that dull night is never night,

  And day is brighter day.

  ODE TO THE MOON.

  I.

  Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go

  Over those hoary crests, divinely led! —

  Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,

  Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread

  Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,

  Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,

  Where hunter never climb’d, — secure from dread?

  How many antique fancies have I read

  Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!

  Wondrous and bright,

  Upon the silver light,

  Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!

  II.

  What art thou like? — Sometimes I see thee ride

  A far-bound galley on its perilous way,

  Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray; —

  Sometimes behold thee glide,

  Cluster’d by all thy family of stars,

  Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,

  Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars; —

  Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep,

  Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

  Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep,

  To catch the young Endymion asleep, —

  Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch! —

  III.

  Oh, thou art beautiful, howe’er it be!

  Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named;

  And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed

  A silver idol, and ne’er worshipp’d thee! —

  It is too late — or thou should’st have my knee —

  Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,

  And not divine the crescent on thy brows! —

  Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon,

  Behind those chestnut boughs,

  Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;

  I will be grateful for that simple boon,

  In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,

  And bless thy dainty face when’er we meet.

  IV.

  In nights far gone, — ay, far away and dead, —

  Before Care-fretted, with a lidless eye, —

  I was thy wooer on my little bed,

  Letting the early hours of rest go by,

  To see thee flood the heaven with milky light,

  And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept;

  For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams, —

  Thou wert the fairies’ armourer, that kept

  Their burnish’d helms, and crowns, and corslets bright,

  Their spears, and glittering mails;

  And ever thou didst spill in winding streams

  Sparkles and midnight gleams,

  For fishes to new gloss their ardent scales! —

  V.

  Why sighs? — why creeping tears? — why clasped hands? —

  Is it to count the boy’s expended dow’r?

  That fairies since have broke their gifted wands?

  That young Delight, like any o’erblown flower,

  Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground? —

  Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark’st no hour,

  Thou art a sadder dial to old Time

  Than ever I have found

  On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow’r,

  Motto’d with stern and melancholy rhyme.

  VI.

  Why should I grieve for this? — Oh I must yearn

  Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory,

  Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn,

  Richly emboss
’d with childhood’s revelry,

  With leaves and cluster’d fruits, and flow’rs eterne, —

  (Eternal to the world, though not to me),

  Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be,

  The deathless wreath, and undecay’d festoon,

  When I am hearsed within, —

  Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon,

  That now she watches through a vapor thin.

  VII.

  So let it be: — Before I lived to sigh,

  Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,

  Beautiful Orb! and so, whene’er I lie

  Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.

  Blest be thy loving light, where’er it spills,

  And blessëd thy fair face, O Mother mild!

  Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run,

  Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond,

  And blend their plighted shadows into one: —

  Still smile at even on the bedded child,

  And close his eyelids with thy silver wand!

  TO ——

  Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow;

  The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine: —

  Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow

  Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine.

  Here are red roses, gather’d at thy cheeks, —

  The white were all too happy to look white:

  For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks;

  It withers in false hands, but here ’tis bright!

  Dost love sweet Hyacinth? Its scented leaf

  Curls manifold, — all love’s delights blow double:

  ’Tis said this flow’ret is inscribed with grief, —

  But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.