by Thomas Hood
A Wife who preaches in her gown,
And lectures in her night-dress!
EPIGRAM. ‘TIS SAID OF LORD B., NONE IS KEENER THAN HE
’Tis said of Lord B., none is keener than he
To spit a Wild Boar with éclat;
But he never gets near to the Brute with his spear,
He gives it so very much law.
BALLAD. THERE WAS A FAIRY LIVED IN A WELL
(WITH AN OLD BURTHEN;
I
There was a Fairy lived in a well,
Down, down, down derry down,
And she pronounced a magical spell,
The bower shall bend to me.
Whoever looks in this wave she said
Shall see the lady that he’s to wed.
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
II
A King came by with his hunting spear,
Down, down, down derry down,
And stopped to look in the water clear,
The bower shall bend to me.
He laid by the brim his signet of gold
And gave his brother his crown to hold,
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
III
But while he knelt and was gazing down,
Down, down, down derry down,
His Brother stood and tried on the crown,
The bower shall bend to me.
The pearls were bright and the rubies were brave
So he tumbled his Brother into the wave,
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
IV
O Brother, O Brother, you’ve got my ring,
Down, down, down derry down,
And the lawful crown that made me a King,
The bower shall bend to me.
But your heart shall fail and your hand shall quake
And the head that wears my jewels shall ake,
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
V
The Murderer stood and looked from the brink,
Down, down, down derry down,
The sun is so hot I should like to drink
The bower shall bend to me.
But lo! as he stooped with a silver cup
His head flew down and his heels flew up!
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
VI
O Brother, O Brother, I’ve got your crown,
Down, down, down derry down,
But the weight of the jewels has pulled me down,
The bower shall bend to me.
You shall be crown’d in the skies again,
But I shall be marked on the brows like Cain!
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
VII
Down he sank in the dismal wave,
Down, down, down derry down,
As cold as death and as dark as the grave,
The bower shall bend to me.
But when he came to the stones at last
The Fairy caught him and held him fast.
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
VIII
She took him into her chrystal hall,
Down, down, down derry down,
And there he saw his face in the wall,
The bower shall bend to me.
She looked rosy but he looked white
And all the tapers were burning bright,
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
IX
The King leapt down from his fairy throne,
Down, down, down derry down,
With brighter eyes than the diamonds shone,
The bower shall bend to me.
His left hand balauced a golden globe
But his right hand lifted his purple robe,
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
X
O Brother, O Brother, bend down your knee,
Down, down, down derry down,
But kneel to Heav’n and not to me,
The bower shall bend to me.
For God may frown on your grievous sin
But I’m too happy you pushed me in,
I’ll prove true to my love for my love proves true to me.
XI
Come hither, come hither, you’re welcome now,
Down, down, down derry down,
To my golden crown that decks your brow,
The bower shall bend to me.
There’s smiles worth heav’n on my love’s face
And she has made me King of this place,
I’ll prove true to my love, for my love proved true to me.
TO MY DEAR MARIANNE
THIS FIRST SONNET
If kindly words could warm th’ unkindly air
To summer clemency, that there might be
A constant atmosphere of love with thee,
Won by a constancy of tender care,
Then thy most delicate cheek should ever wear
An exquisite blush, red-ripening to the glee
Of cheerful lips; and my contentment see
Its wish so recognised and written there:
So much my bosom clings to thee and feels
A painful echo of thy bosom pains;
The patient paleness of thy cheek so steals
With more than chill of Winter to my veins;
And conscious sympathy of blood reveals
The tender Brother-hood that now obtains!
SONG. THE SUMMER — THE SUMMER
The Summer — the Summer —
Is beautiful and green; —
But when its leaves are fallen off
Who’d know that it had been,
Its dewy buds, its scented flow’rs —
Its fair and sunny mien,
If honey were not stored up
And harvest left to glean?
So beauty, so beauty
Will wither and away; —
And what is left to charm ns when
The flower’s in decay,
To cheer our hearts and feast our souls
And bless Affection’s sway,
But that love gave us all its sweets
Whilst Beauty had its day?
Then Winter, then Winter
But sees us more than kind; —
Tho’ Age hath soil’d the surface charm
Where first the eye reclin’d.
But love lies deeper at the core,
Like words the woodmen find
Deep graven in the hearts of trees
That once were on the rind.
WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF THE FOREGOING
Give me a pen that’s charg’d with dews
Fresh gather’d from the morning rose,
And let it stain my page with hues
As bright as kernel buds enclose.
In common ink shall I indite,
With ink that dates the felon’s doom,
That forges bonds, no, let me write
My bloomy thoughts in tints of bloom.
FRAGMENT
(EVIDENTLY SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. REYNOLDS, MOTHER OF THE POET’S WIFE)
Mary, I believ’d you quick
But you’re as deaf as any beedle;
See where you have left the plates;
You’ve an eye, and so’s a needle.
Why an’t Anne behind the door,
Standing ready with her dishes,
No one ever had such maids
Always thwarting all my wishes,
Marianne set up that child —
And where’s her pinafore — call
Mary,
The frock I made her will be spoil’d —
Now Lizzy don’t be so contrary,
Hand round the bread—’ Thank God for what—’
It’s done to rags! How wrong of Ann now,
The dumplings too are hard as lead
> And plates stone-cold — but that’s her plan now —
Mary, a knock — now Hood take that —
Or go without — Why, George, you’re wanted,
Where is that Lotte? Call her down
She knows there’s no white wine decanted —
Put to the door, we always dine
In public —
Jane take that cover off the greens;
Our earthenware they play the deuce to;
Here’s Mr. Green without a fork —
And I’ve no plate — but that I’m used to. —
SERENADE
Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet while I address thee now,
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep.
’Tis sweet enough to make me weep,
That tender thought of love and thee,
That while the world is hush’d so deep,
Thy soul’s perhaps awake to me!
Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! —
With golden visions for thy dower,
While I this midnight vigil keep,
And bless thee in thy silent bower;
To me ’tis sweeter than the power
Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl’d,
That I alone, at this still hour,
In patient love outwatch the world.
FALSE POETS AND TRUE
TO WORDSWORTH
Look how the lark soars upward and is gone,
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!
His voice is heard, but body there is none
To fix the vague excursions of the eye.
So, poets’ songs are with ns, tho’ they die
Obscured, and hid by death’s oblivious shroud,
And Earth inherits the rich melody
Like raining music from the morning cloud.
Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud
Their voices reach us through the lapse of space:
The noisy day is deafen’d by a crowd
Of undistinguish’d birds, a twittering race;
But only lark and nightingale forlorn
Fill up the silences of night and morn.
SONNET. LOVE, I AM JEALOUS OF A WORTHLESS MAN
Love, I am jealous of a worthless man
Whom — for his merits — thou dost hold too dear:
No better than myself, he lies as near
And precious to thy bosom. He may span
Thy sacred waist and with thy sweet breath fan
His happy cheek, and thy most willing ear
Invade with words and call his love sincere
And true as mine, and prove it — if he can: —
Not that I hate him for such deeds as this —
He were a devil to adore thee less,
Who wears thy favour, I am ill at ease
Rather lest he should e’er too coldly press
Thy gentle hand: — This is my jealousy
Making myself suspect but never thee!
LOVE, SEE THY LOVER
Love, see thy lover humbled at thy feet,
Not in servility, but homage sweet,
Gladly inclined: — and with my bended knee
Think that my inward spirit bows to thee —
More proud indeed than when I stand or climb
Elsewhere: — there is no statue so sublime
As Love’s in all the world, and e’en to kiss
The pedestal is still a better bliss
Than all ambitions. O! Love’s lowest base
Is far above the reaching of disgrace
To shame this posture. Let me then draw nigh
Feet that have fared so nearly to the sky,
And when this duteous homage has been given
I will rise up and clasp the heart in Heaven.
LEAR
A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown,
Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind —
For pity, my own tears have made me blind
That I might never see my children’s frown;
And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown
A folded fillet over my dark mind,
So that unkindly speech may sound for kind —
Albeit I know not. — I am childish grown —
And have not gold to purchase wit withal —
I that have once maintain’d most royal state —
A very bankrupt now that may not call
My child, my child — all beggar’d save in tears,
Wherewith I daily weep an old man’s fate,
Foolish — and blind — and overcome with years!
STANZAS
Is there a bitter pang for love removed,
O God! The dead love doth not cost more tears
Than the alive, the loving, the beloved —
Not yet, not yet beyond all hopes and fears!
Would I were laid
Under the shade
Of the calm grave, and the long grass of years,
That love might die with sorrow: — I am sorrow;
And she, that loves me tenderest, doth press
Most poison from my cruel lips, and borrow
Only new anguish from the old caress;
Oh, this world’s grief
Hath no relief
In being wrung from a great happiness.
Would I had never filled thine eyes with love,
For love is only tears: would I had never
Breathed such a curse-like blessing as we prove;
Now, if ‘Farewell’ could bless thee, I would sever!
Would I were laid
Under the shade
Of the cold tomb, and the long grass for ever!
SONG. THERE IS DEW FOR THE FLOW’RET
There is dew for the flow’ret
And honey for the bee,
And bowers for the wild bird,
And love for you and me.
There are tears for the many
And pleasures for the few;
But let the world pass on, dear,
There’s love for me and you.
VERSES IN AN ALBUM
Far above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,
Cloud doth never shade him,
Nor a storm invade him,
On his joyous throne.
So when I behold me
In an orb as bright,
How thy soul doth fold me
In its throne of light!
Sorrow never paineth,
Nor a care attaineth,
To that blessed height.
TO A FALSE FRIEND
Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again.
Friends, if we have ever been,
Friends we cannot now remain:
I only know I loved you once,
I only know I loved in vain;
Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again!
Then farewell to heart and hand!
I would our hands had never met:
Even the outward form of love
Must be resign’d with some regret.
Friends, we still might seem to be,
If I my wrong could e’er forget;
Our hands have join’d, but not our hearts;
I would our hands had never met!
STANZAS
With the good of our country before us,
Why play the mere partisan’s game?
Lo! the broad flag of England is o’er us,
And behold on both sides ’tis the same!
Not for this, not for that, not for any,
Not for these, not for those, but for all,
To the last drop of blood, the last penny —
Together let’s stand, or let’s fall!
Tear down the vile signs of a fraction
,
Be the national banner unfurl’d,
And if we must have any faction,
Be it ‘Britain against all the world.’
SONG TO MY WIFE
Those eyes that were so bright, love,
Have now a dimmer shine,
But all they’ve lost in light, love,
Was what they gave to mine:
But still those orbs reflect, love,
The beams of former hours,
That ripen’d all my joys, my love,
And tinted all my flowers!
Those locks were brown to see, love,
That now are turned so gray,
But the years were spent with me, love,
That stole their hue away.
Thy locks no longer share, love,
The golden glow of noon,
But I’ve seen the world look fair, my love,
When silver’d by the moon!
That brow was smooth and fair, love,
That looks so shaded now,
But for me it bore the care, love,
That spoiled a bonny brow.
And though no longer there, love,
The gloss it had of yore,
Still Memory looks and dotes, my love,
Where Hope admired before!
SUGGESTED BY A BUNCH OF ENGLISH GRAPES
We did not wear a leafy crown,
And darkly glance to darker glance,
Under the green leaf and the brown,
Wooing the eyes of maids of France,
With very bloomy down:
We stain’d not hands with purple blood
