by Thomas Hood
That, as we walk upon the river’s ridge,
Assault the nose — below the bridge.
A walk, however, as tradition tells,
That once a poor blind Tobit used to choose,
Because, incapable of other views,
He met with ‘such a sight of smells.’
But on, and on, and on,
In spite of all unsavoury shocks,
Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John,
Steadily steering ship-like for the docks —
And now they reach a place the Muse, unwilling,
Recalls for female slang and vulgar doing,
The famous gate of Billing,
That does not lead to cooing —
And now they pass that House that is so ugly
A Customer to people looking smuggl’y —
And now along that fatal Hill they pass
Where centuries ago an Oxford bled,
And prov’d — too late to save his life, alas! —
That he was ‘off his head.
At last before a lofty brick-built pile
Sir Peter stopp’d, and with mysterious smile
Tingled a bell that served to bring
The wire-drawn genius of the ring,
A species of commercial Samuel Weller —
To whom Sir Peter — tipping him a wink,
And something else to drink —
‘Show us the cellar.’
Obsequious bowed the man, and led the way
Down sundry flights of stairs, where windows small,
Dappled with mud let in a dingy ray —
A dirty tax, if they were tax’d at all.
At length they came into a cellar damp,
With venerable cobwebs fringed around,
A cellar of that stamp
Which often harbours vintages renown’d,
The feudal Hock, or Burgundy the courtly,
With sherry, brown or golden,
Or port, so olden,
Bereft of body ’tis no longer portly —
But old or otherwise — to be veracious —
That cobwebb’d cellar, damp, and dim, and spacious, —
Held nothing crusty — but crustaceous.
Prone, on the chilly floor,
Five splendid Turtles — such a five!
Natives of some West Indian shore,
Were flapping all alive,
Late landed from the Jolly Planter’s yawl —
A sight whereon the dignitaries fix’d
Their eager eyes, with ecstasy unmix’d,
Like fathers that behold their infants crawl,
Enjoying every little kick and sprawl.
Nay — far from fatherly the thoughts they bred,
Poor loggerheads from far Ascension ferried!
The Aldermen too plainly wish’d them dead
And Aldermanbury’d!
‘There!’ cried Sir Peter, with an air
Triumphant as an ancient victor’s,
And pointing to the creatures rich and rare,
‘There’s picters!’
‘Talk of Olympic Games! They’re not worth mention;
The real prize for wrestling is when Jack,
In Providence or Ascension,
Can throw a lively turtle on its back!’
‘Aye!’ cried Sir John, and with a score of nods,
Thoughtful of classical symposium,
‘There’s food for Gods!
There’s nectar! there’s ambrosium!
There’s food for Roman Emperors to eat —
Oh, there had been a treat
(Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us)
For Helio-gobble-us!’
‘There were a feast for Alexander’s Feast!
The real sort — none of your mock or spurious!’
And then he mention’d Aldermen deceased,
And ‘Epicurius,’
And how Tertullian had enjoy’d such foison;
And speculated on that verdigrease
That isn’t poison.
‘Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that!
Give me green fat!
As for your Poets with their groves of myrtles
And billing turtles,
Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there,
A-billing in a bill of fare!’
‘Of all the things I ever swallow —
Good, well-dressed turtle beats them hollow —
It almost makes me wish, I vow,
To have two stomachs, like a cow!’
And lo! as with the cud, an inward thrill
Upheaved his waistcoat and disturb’d his frill,
His mouth was oozing and he work’d his jaw —
‘I almost think that I could eat one raw!’
And thus, as ‘inward love breeds outward talk,’
The portly pair continu ed to discourse;
And then — as Gray describes of life’s divorce —
With ‘longing lingering look ‘prepared to walk, —
Having thro’ one delighted sense at least,
Enjoy’d a sort of Barmecidal feast,
And with prophetic gestures, strange to see,
Forestall’d the civic Banquet yet to be,
Its callipash and callipee!
A pleasant prospect — but alack!
Scarcely each Alderman had turn’d his back,
When seizing on the moment so propitious,
And having learn’d that they were so delicious
To bite and sup,
From praises so high-flown and injudicious, —
And nothing could be more pernicious!
The Turtles fell to work, and ate each other up!
MORAL
Never, from folly or urbanity,
Praise people thus profusely to their faces,
Till quite in love with their own graces,
They’re eaten up by vanity!
EPIGRAM: THREE TRAITORS
Three traitors, Oxford — Francis — Bean,
Have missed their wicked aim;
And may all shots against the Queen,
In future do the same:
For why, I mean no turn of wit,
But seriously insist
That if Her Majesty were hit
No one would be so miss’d.
MISCELLANEOUS UNCOLLECTED POEMS (1821-1845)
CONTENTS
TO HOPE.
ODE TO DR. KITCHENER.
TO A CRITIC
TO CELIA.
FARE THEE WELL
MIDNIGHT.
TO A SLEEPING CHILD.
SONNET WRITTEN IN KEATS’S ‘ENDYMION’
EPIGRAM WRITTEN ON A PICTURE IN THE EXHIBITION, CALLED ‘THE DOUBTFUL SNEEZE’
SONG. O LADY, LEAVE THY SILKEN THREAD.
THE TWO SWANS.
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.
ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER ‘CHANGE, ON THE DEATH OF THE ELEPHANT
IN MEMORIAM
ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR, ON PUBLICATION OF HIS ‘VISIT TO OXFORD’
ODE TO EDWARD GIBBON WAKEFIELD, ESQ.
VAUXHALL
TO MR. WRENCH AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE
TO MISS KELLY OF THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE
HINTS TO PAUL PRY
TO THOMAS BISH, ESQ.
TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY
FLOWERS
I LOVE THEE
BALLAD: IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER
ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.
ODE
A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY
ODE
STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS
THE LOGICIANS
DEATH IN THE KITCHEN
EPISTLE TO MISS CHARLOTTE REYNOLDS
ON THE DEATH OF THE GIRAFFE
ON THE REMOVAL OF A MENAGERIE
BIRTHDAY VERSES
THE FAREWELL
ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER
FOR THE FOURTE
ENTH OF FEBRUARY
A BUNCH OF FORGET-ME-NOTS
THE POET’S PORTION
‘
I’Μ NOT A SINGLE MAN’
PLAYING AT SOLDIERS
THE SWEETS OF YOUTH
ODE TO N. A. VIGORS, ESQ.
THE PAINTER PUZZLED
THE DEATH-BED
ANTICIPATION
THE STAGE-STRUCK HERO
ODE TO JOSEPH HUME, ESQ., M.P.
THE BALLAD
TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER
EPIGRAM ON A PICTURE
ANSWER TO PAUPER
JARVIS AND MRS. COPE
MISS FANNY’S FAREWELL FLOWERS
THE CHINA-MENDER
ODE TO SPENCER PERCEVAL, ESQ., M.P.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT
A PUBLIC DINNER
ODE TO ADMIRAL LORD GAMBIER, G.C.B.
THE CIGAR
A CHARITY SERMON
A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
ODE TO MISS KELLY
ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.
ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P.
THE UNITED FAMILY
SONNET TO OCEAN
SONNET. — THINK SWEETEST
LINES ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN SLEEPING IN THE SAME CHAMBER
POETRY, PROSE, AND WORSE
SONG FOR THE NINETEENTH
A TOAST
DRINKING SONG
DOMESTIC POEMS
HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS
A SERENADE
JOHN JONES
ODE TO MESSRS. GREEN, HOLLOND, AND MONCK MASON
THE BLUE BOAR
ODE TO DOCTOR HAHNEMANN
THE DEAD ROBBERY
THE DESERT-BORN
AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS
LOVE LANE
ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQ.
NAPOLEON’S MIDNIGHT REVIEW
HIT OR MISS
THE OLD POLER’S WARNING
STANZAS COMPOSED IN A SHOWER-BATH
CLUBS TURNED UP BY A FEMALE HAND
A RISE AT THE FATHER OF ANGLING
THE FORLORN SHEPHERD’S COMPLAINT
MORNING MEDITATIONS
THE BEADLE’S ANNUAL ADDRESS
A TABLE OF ERRATA
ALL ROUND MY HAT
BEN BLUFF
A PLAIN DIRECTION
THE BACHELOR’S DREAM
RURAL FELICITY
A FLYING VISIT
THE DOVES AND THE CROWS
THE DOCTOR
THE VISION
THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS’ PETITION
LORD DURHAM’S RETURN
VERSES MISTAKEN FOR AN INCENDIARY SONG
THE GREEN MAN
POMPEY’S GHOST
AN OPEN QUESTION
MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG.
ON A LATE IMMERSION
A TALE OF A TRUMPET
A BULL
A REFLECTION
ON A ROYAL DEMISE
UP THE RHINE
THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS
ON A NATIVE SINGER
TO C. DICKENS, ESQ.
NIGHT-SONG — WRITTEN AT SEA
THE ELM TREE
RONDEAU
EPIGRAM ON A CERTAIN HERO AND HEROINE
ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE HAYMARKET THEATRE
SONNET. MY HEART IS SICK WITH LONGING, THO’ I FEED
A DROP OF GIN
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
THE PAUPER’S CHRISTMAS CAROL
THE MARY
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
A DISCOVERY IN ASTRONOMY
A SONG FOR THE MILLION
SKIPPING. A MYSTERY
A TALE OF TEMPER
EPIGRAM ON THE ARRANGEMENT OF THE STATUES IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE
REFLECTIONS ON NEW YEAR’S DAY
THE LADY’S DREAM
MAGNETIC MUSINGS
A DREAM
EPIGRAM
THE KEY
THE CAPTAIN’S COW
THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK
AN EXPLANATION
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
EPIGRAM ON DR. ROBERT ELLIOT OF CAMBERWELL.
EPIGRAM ON A CERTAIN EQUESTRIAN STATUE
EPIGRAM ON THE NEW HALF-FARTHINGS
EPIGRAM. CHARM’D WITH A DRINK WHICH HIGHLANDERS COMPOSE
THE LAY OF THE LABOURER
SONNET TO A SONNET
EPIGRAM ON HER MAJESTY’S VISIT TO THE CITY
EPIGRAM ON THE QUEEN’S VISIT TO THE CITY
EPIGRAM
THE SAUSAGE-MAKER’S GHOST
THE LARK AND THE ROOK
SUGGESTIONS BY STEAM
ANACREONTIC BY A FOOTMAN
EPIGRAM. A LORD BOUGHT OF LATE AN OUTLANDISH ESTATE
STANZAS
THE SURPLICE QUESTION
EPIGRAM. ‘TIS SAID OF LORD B., NONE IS KEENER THAN HE
BALLAD. THERE WAS A FAIRY LIVED IN A WELL
TO MY DEAR MARIANNE
SONG. THE SUMMER — THE SUMMER
WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF THE FOREGOING
FRAGMENT
SERENADE
FALSE POETS AND TRUE
SONNET. LOVE, I AM JEALOUS OF A WORTHLESS MAN
LOVE, SEE THY LOVER
LEAR
STANZAS
SONG. THERE IS DEW FOR THE FLOW’RET
VERSES IN AN ALBUM
TO A FALSE FRIEND
STANZAS
SONG TO MY WIFE
SUGGESTED BY A BUNCH OF ENGLISH GRAPES
LINES
SONG. MY MOTHER BIDS ME SPEND MY SMILES
YOUTH AND AGE
SIR JOHN BOWRING
TO HENRIETTA
QUEEN MAB
EPIGRAM. MY HEART’S WOUND UP JUST LIKE A WATCH
EPIGRAM. AS HUMAN FASHIONS CHANGE ABOUT
TO MINERVA
FRAGMENT
GUIDO AND MARINA
FRAGMENTS
LAMIA
TO HOPE.
Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp,
And play to me so cheerily;
For grief is dark, and care is sharp,
And life wears on so wearily.
Oh! take thy harp!
Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do,
When, all youth’s sunny season long,
I sat and listened to thy song,
And yet ’twas ever, ever new,
With magic in its heaven-tuned string —
The future bliss thy constant theme.
Oh! then each little woe took wing
Away, like phantoms of a dream;
As if each sound
That flutter’d round,
Had floated over Lethe’s stream!
By all those bright and happy hours
We spent in life’s sweet eastern bow’rs,
Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show,
Ere buds were come, where flowers would blow,
And oft anticipate the rise
Of life’s warm sun that scaled the skies;
By many a story of love and glory,
And friendships promised oft to me;
By all the faith I lent to thee, —
Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp,
And play to me so cheerily;
For grief is dark, and care is sharp,
And life wears on so wearily.
Oh! take thy harp!
Perchance the strings will sound less clear,
That long have lain neglected by
In sorrow’s misty atmosphere;
It ne’er may speak as it hath spoken
Such joyous notes so brisk and high;
But are its golden chords all broken?
Are there not some, though weak and low,
To play a lullaby to woe?
But thou canst sing of love no more,
For Celia show’d that dream was vain;
And many a fancied bliss is o’er,
That comes not e’en in dreams again.
Alas! alas!
How pleasures pass,
And leave thee now no subject, save
The peace and bliss beyond the grave!
Then be thy flight among the skies:
Take, then, oh! take the skylark’s wing,
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise
O’er all its tearful clouds, and sing
On skylark’s wing!
Another life-spring there adorns
Another youth — without the dread
Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns
Is here for manhood’s aching head.
Oh! there are realms of welcome day,
A world where tears are wiped away!
Then be thy flight among the skies:
Take, then, oh! take the skylark’s wing,
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise
O’er all its tearful clouds, and sing
On skylark’s wing!
ODE TO DR. KITCHENER.
YE Muses nine inspire
And stir up my poetic fire;
Teach my burning soul to speak
With a bubble and a squeak!
Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing,
Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring.
O culinary sage!
(I do not mean the herb in use,
That always goes along with goose)
How have I feasted on thy page:
“When like a lobster boil’d the morn
From black to red began to turn,”
Till midnight, when I went to bed,
And clapt my tewah-diddle on my head.
Who is there cannot tell,
Thou leadest a life of living well?
“What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy Fry — er?”
In doing well thou must be reckon’d
The first, — and Mrs. Fry the second;
And twice Job, — for, in thy fev’rish toils,
Thou wast all over roasts — as well as boils.
Thou wast indeed no dunce,
To treat thy subjects and thyself at once;
Many a hungry poet eats
His brains like thee,
But few there be
Could live so long on their receipts
What living soul or sinner
Would slight thy invitation to a dinner,
Ought with the Danaides to dwell,
Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear
For ever in his ear
The pleasant tinkling of thy dinner bell.
Immortal Kitchener! thy fame
Shall keep itself when Time makes game
Of other men’s — yea, it shall keep, all weathers,
And thou shalt be upheld by thy pen feathers.
Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly!
