Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

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Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works Page 66

by Thomas Hood


  His weapon lies in piece,

  Oh, it would warm them in a trice,

  If they could only have a spice

  Of his old mace in Greece!

  The fam’d Rinaldo lies a-cold,

  And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,

  That scal’d the holy wall!

  No Saracen meets Paladin,

  We hear of no great Saladin,

  But only grow the small.

  Our Cressys too have dwindled since

  To penny things — at our Black Prince

  Historic pens would scoff —

  The only one we moderns had

  Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,

  And measles took him off! —

  Where are those old and feudal clans,

  Their pikes, and bills, and partizans,

  Their hauberks — jerkins — buffs?

  A battle was a battle then,

  A breathing piece of work — but men

  Fight now — with powder puffs!

  The curtal-axe is out of date!

  The good old cross-bow bends to Fate

  ’Tis gone — the archer’s craft!

  No tough arm bends the springing yew,

  And jolly draymen ride, in lieu

  Of Death, upon the shaft. —

  The spear — the gallant tilter’s pride —

  The rusty spear is laid aside,

  Oh spits now domineer! —

  The coat of mail is left alone,

  And where is all chain-armour gone?

  Go ask at Brighton Pier.

  We fight in ropes and not in lists,

  Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists,

  A low and vulgar art! —

  No mounted man is overthrown —

  A tilt! — it is a thing unknown —

  Except upon a cart.

  Methinks I see the bounding barb,

  Clad like his chief in steely garb,

  For warding steel’s appliance! —

  Methinks I hear the trumpet stir!

  ’Tis but the guard to Exeter,

  That bugles the ‘Defiance!’

  In cavils when will cavaliers

  Set ringing helmets by the ears,

  And scatter plumes about?

  Or blood — if they are in the vein?

  That tap will never run again —

  Alas the Casque is out!

  No iron-crackling now is scor’d

  By dint of battle-axe or sword,

  To find a vital place —

  Though certain Doctors still pretend

  Awhile, before they kill a friend,

  To labour through his case.

  Farewell, then, ancient men of might!

  Crusader! errant squire, and knight!

  Our coats and customs soften,

  To rise would only make ye weep —

  Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep,

  As in a safety-coffin!

  ODE

  IMITATED FROM HORACE

  Oh! well may poets make a fuss

  In summer time, and sigh ‘O rus!’

  Of London pleasures sick:

  My heart is all at pant to rest

  In greenwood shades, my eyes detest

  This endless meal of brick!

  What joy have I in June’s return?

  My feet are parch’d — my eyeballs burn,

  I scent no flowery gust; —

  But faint the flagging zephyr springs,

  With dry Macadam on its wings,

  And turns me ‘dust to dust.’

  My sun his daily course renews

  Due east, but with no Eastern dews;

  The path is dry and hot!

  His setting shows more tamely still,

  He sinks behind no purple hill,

  But down a chimney’s pot!

  Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blithe,

  Or early mower whet his scythe

  The dewy meads among! —

  My grass is of that sort — alas! —

  That makes no hay, call’d sparrowgrass

  By folks of vulgar tongue!

  Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!

  I think of cowslip-cups — but meet

  With very vile rebuffs!

  For meadow buds, I get a whiff

  Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff

  The turtle made at Cuff’s. —

  How tenderly Rousseau review’d

  His periwinkles! — mine are stew’d!

  My rose blooms on a gown!

  I hunt in vain for eglantine,

  And find my blue-bell on the sign

  That marks the Bell and Crown!

  Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing

  From tree to tree, and gaily sing

  Or mourn in thickets deep?

  My cuckoo has some ware to sell,

  The watchman is my Philomel,

  My blackbird is a sweep!

  Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush!

  That perch on leafy bough and bush,

  And tune the various song?

  Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor

  Street-Handel grinding at my door,

  Are all my ‘tuneful throng.’

  Where are ye, early-purling streams,

  Whose waves reflect the morning beams —

  And colours of the skies?

  My rills are only puddle-drains

  From shambles — or reflect the stains

  Of calimanco-dyes.

  Sweet are the little brooks that run

  O’er pebbles glancing in the sun,

  Singing in soothing tones: —

  Not thus the city streamlets flow;

  They make no music as they go,

  Tho’ never ‘off the stones.’

  Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep,

  That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap

  Beside your woolly dams?

  Alas! instead of harmless crooks,

  My Corydons use iron hooks,

  And skin — not shear — the lambs.

  The pipe whereon, in olden day,

  Th’ Arcadian herdsman us’d to play

  Sweetly — here soundeth not;

  But merely breathes unwelcome fumes,

  Meanwhile the city boor consumes

  The rank weed. ‘piping hot.’

  All rural things are vilely mock’d,

  On every hand the sense is shock’d

  With objects hard to bear:

  Shades, vernal shades! — where wine is sold!

  And for a turfy bank, behold

  An Ingram’s rustic chair!

  Where are ye, London meads and bow’rs,

  And gardens redolent of flow’rs

  Wherein the zephyr wons?

  Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more!

  See Hatton’s Garden brick’d all o’er;

  And that bare wood — St. John’s.

  No pastoral scene procures me peace;

  I hold no Leasowes in my lease,

  No cot set round with trees:

  No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks

  And omnium furnishes my banks

  With brokers — not with bees.

  Oh! well may poets make a fuss

  In summer time, and sigh ‘O rus!’

  Of city pleasures sick:

  My heart is all at pant to rest

  In greenwood shades, my eyes detest

  This endless meal of brick!

  STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS

  I

  Tom! — are you still within this land

  Of livers — still on Hastings’ sand,

  Or roaming on the waves,

  Or has some billow o’er you rolled,

  Jealous that earth should lap so bold

  A seaman in her graves?

  II

  On land the rush-light lives of men

  Go out but slowly; nine in ten,

  By tedious long decline,

  Not so the jolly sailor sinks,
>
  Who founders in the wave, and drinks

  The apoplectic brine!

  III

  Ay, while I write, mayhap your head

  Is sleeping on an oyster-bed,

  I hope ’tis far from truth!

  With periwinkle eyes; — your bone

  Beset with mussels, not your own,

  And corals at your tooth!

  IV

  Still does the Chance pursue the chance

  The main affords — the Aidant dance

  In safety on the tide?

  Still flies that sign of my good-will

  A little bunting thing — but still

  To thee a flag of pride?

  V

  Does that hard, honest hand now clasp

  The tiller in its careful grasp —

  With every summer breeze

  When ladies sail, in lady-fear —

  Or, tug the oar, a gondolier

  On smooth Macadam seas? —

  VI

  Or are you where the flounders keep,

  Some dozen briny fathoms deep,

  Where sands and shells abound —

  With some old Triton on your chest

  And twelve grave mermen for a ‘quest,

  To find that you are — drowned?

  VII

  Swift is the wave, and apt to bring

  A sudden doom — perchance I sing

  A mere funereal strain; —

  You have endured the utter strife —

  And are — the same in death or life,

  A good man in the main!

  VIII

  Oh, no — I hope the old brown eye

  Still watches ebb and flood and sky;

  That still the old brown shoes

  Are sucking brine up — pumps indeed!

  Your tooth still full of ocean weed,

  Or Indian — which you choose.

  IX

  I like you, Tom! and in these lays

  Give honest worth its honest praise,

  No puff at honour’s cost;

  For though you met these words of mine,

  All letter-learning was a line

  You, somehow, never crossed!

  X

  Mayhap, we ne’er shall meet again,

  Except on that Pacific main,

  Beyond this planet’s brink; —

  Yet as we erst have braved the weather,

  Still we may float awhile together,

  As comrades on this ink! —

  XI

  Many a scudding gale we’ve had

  Together, and, my gallant lad,

  Some perils we have passed;

  When huge and black the wave careered,

  And oft the giant surge appeared

  The master of our mast: —

  XII

  ’Twas thy example taught me how

  To climb the billow’s hoary brow,

  Or cleave the raging heap —

  To bound along the ocean wild,

  With danger only as a child,

  The waters rocked to sleep.

  XIII

  Oh, who can tell that brave delight,

  To see the hissing wave in might,

  Come rampant like a snake!

  To leap his horrid crest, and feast

  One’s eyes upon the briny beast,

  Left couchant in the wake!

  XIV

  The simple shepherd’s love is still

  To bask upon a sunny hill,

  The herdsman roams the vale —

  With both their fancies I agree;

  Be mine the swelling, scooping sea,

  That is both hill and dale!

  XV

  I yearn for that brisk spray — I yearn

  To feel the wave from stem to stern

  Uplift the plunging keel.

  That merry step we used to dance,

  On hoard the Aidant or the Chance,

  The ocean ‘toe and heel.’ —

  XVI

  I long to feel the steady gale,

  That fills the broad distended sail —

  The seas on either hand!

  My thought, like any hollow shell,

  Keeps mocking at my ear the swell

  Of waves against the land.

  XVII

  It is no fable — that old strain

  Of sirens! — so the witching main

  Is singing — and I sigh!

  My heart is all at once inclined

  To seaward — and I seem to find

  The waters in my eye!

  XVIII

  Methinks I see the shining beach;

  The merry waves, each after each,

  Rebounding o’er the flints; —

  I spy the grim preventive spy!

  The jolly boatmen standing nigh!

  The maids in morning chintz!

  XIX

  And there they float — the sailing craft!

  The sail is up — the wind abaft —

  The ballast trim and neat.

  Alas! ’tis all a dream — a lie!

  A printer’s imp is standing by,

  To haul my mizen sheet I

  XX

  My tiller dwindles to a pen —

  My craft is that of bookish men —

  My sale — let Longman tell!

  Adieu the wave! the wind! the spray!

  Men — maidens — chintzes — fade away!

  Tom Woodgate, fare thee well!

  THE LOGICIANS

  AN ILLUSTRATION

  ‘Metaphysics were a large field in which to exercise the weapons logic had put into their hands.’ — Scriblerus.

  See here two cavillers,

  Would-be unravellers

  Of abstruse theory and questions mystical,

  In tête-à-tête,

  And deep debate,

  Wrangling according to forms syllogistical.

  Glowing and ruddy

  The light streams in upon their deep brown, study,

  And settles on our bald logician’s skull:

  But still his meditative eye looks dull —

  And muddy,

  For he is gazing inwardly, like Plato;

  But to the world without

  And things about,

  His eye is blind as that of a potato

  In fact, logicians

  See but by syllogisms — taste and smell

  By propositions;

  And never let the common dray-horse senses

  Draw inferences.

  How wise his brow! how eloquent his nose!

  The feature of itself is a negation!

  How gravely double is his chin, that shows

  Double deliberation;

  His scornful lip forestalls the confutation!

  O this is he that wisely with a major

  And minor proves a greengage is no gauger! —

  By help of ergo,

  That cheese of sage will make no mite the sager,

  And Taurus is no bull to toss up Virgo! —

  O this is he that logically tore his

  Dog into dogmas — following Aristotle —

  Cut up his cat into ten categories,

  And cork’d an abstract conjuror in a bottle!

  O this is he that disembodied matter,

  And proved that incorporeal corporations

  Put nothing in no platter,

  And for mock turtle only supp’d sensations!

  O this is he that palpably decided,

  With grave and mathematical precision —

  How often atoms may be subdivided

  By long division;

  O this is he that show’d I is not I,

  And made a ghost of personal identity;

  Proved ‘Ipse’ absent by an alibi,

  And frisking in some other person’s entity;

  He sounded all philosophies in truth,

  Whether old schemes or only supplemental: —

  And had, by virtue of his wisdom-tooth,

  A denta
l knowledge of the transcendental! —

  The other is a shrewd severer wight,

  Sharp argument hath worn him nigh the bone:

  For why? he never let dispute alone,

  A logical knight-errant,

  That wrangled ever, morning, noon and night,

  From night to morn: he had no wife apparent

  But Barbara Celârent!

  Woe unto him he caught in a dilemma,

  For on the point of his two fingers full

  He took the luckless wight, and gave with them a —

  Most deadly toss, like any baited bull.

  Woe unto him that ever dared to breathe

  A sophism in his angry ear! for that

  He took ferociously between his teeth,

  And shook it — like a terrier with a rat!

  In fact old Controversy ne’er begat

  One half so cruel

  And dangerous as he, in verbal duel!

  No one had ever so complete a fame

  As a debater; —

  And for art logical his name was greater

  Than Dr. Watts’s name! —

  Look how they sit together!

  Two bitter desperate antagonists,

  Licking each other with their tongues, like fists,

  Merely to settle whether

  This world of ours had ever a beginning —

  Whether created,

  Vaguely undated,

  Or time had any finger in its spinning: —

  When, lo! — for they were sitting at the basement —

  A hand, like that upon Belshazzar’s wall,

  Lets fall

  A written paper through the open casement.

  ‘O foolish wits! (thus runs the document)

  To twist your brains into a double knot

  On such a barren question! Be content

  That there is such a fair and pleasant spot

  For your enjoyment as this verdant earth.

 

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