by Thomas Hood
In golden Arno’s pleasant vale,
Where the proud Brothers quenched the stain,
And saw two murderers in the flood
With faces guilty-pale: —
Nor on the sunny hills of Spain
We used to drink the sun and twine
Long amorous tendrils to entrap
The careless finger of maid to linger
And pluck us from the trembling vine
To brim her dimpled lap.
LINES
Let us make a leap, my dear,
In our love, of many a year,
And date it very far away,
On a bright clear summer day,
When the heart was like a sun
To itself, and falsehood none;
And the rosy lips a part
Of the very loving heart,
And the shining of the eye
But a sign to know it by; —
When my faults were all forgiven,
And my life deserved of Heaven.
Dearest, let us reckon so,
And love for all that long ago;
Each absence count a year complete,
And keep a birthday when we meet.
SONG. MY MOTHER BIDS ME SPEND MY SMILES
Air—’ My mother bids me.’
My mother bids me spend my smiles
On all who come and call me fair,
As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles,
To all the sparrows of the air.
But I’ve a darling of my own
For whom I hoard my little stock —
What if I chirp him all alone,
And leave mamma to feed the flock!
YOUTH AND AGE
Impatient of his childhood,
‘Ah me!’ exclaims young Arthur,
Whilst roving in the wild wood,
‘I wish I were my father! ‘
Meanwhile, to see his Arthur
So skip, and play, and run,
‘Ah me!’ exclaims the father,
‘I wish I were my son!’
SIR JOHN BOWRING
To Bowring, man of many tongues,
(All over tongues like rumour)
This tributary verse belongs
To paint his learned humour;
All kinds of gabs he talks, I wis,
From Latin down to Scottish;
As fluent as a parrot is,
But far more Polly-glottish!
No grammar too abstruse he meets
However dark and verby,
He gossips Greek about the streets,
And often Russ — in urbe — :
Strange tongues whate’er you do them call,
In short the man is able
To tell you what’s o’clock in all
The dialects of Babel.
Take him on Change; try Portuguese,
The Moorish and the Spanish,
Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese,
The Swedish and the Danish; —
Try him with these and fifty such,
His skill will ne’er diminish,
Although you should begin in Dutch
And end (like me) in Finnish.
TO HENRIETTA
ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS
When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They will not just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.
Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it’s my belief,
They’ll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef,
With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock,
And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.
But first they’ll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,
And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; —
And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,
For anyhow you’ll never have your middle in the middle.
Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,
But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;
For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)
In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!
What next? — to fill your head with French to match the native girls,
In scraps of Galignani they’ll screw up your little curls;
And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,
And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.
You’ll have to learn a, chon is quite another sort of thing
To that you put your foot in; that a belle is not to ring;
That a corne is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;
Nor peut-être a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.
No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,
But you may get in course of time a pomme de terre to munch,
With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,
You’ll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!
But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,
No matter what you eat or drink, ‘whatever is, is right!’ —
So when you’re told at dinner-time that some delicious stew
Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer ‘Tant mi — eux!’
For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!
QUEEN MAB
A little fairy comes at night,
Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,
With silver spots upon her wings,
And from the moon she flutters down.
She has a little silver wand,
And when a good child goes to bed
She waves her wand from right to left,
And makes a circle round its head.
And then it dreams of pleasant things,
Of fountains filled with fairy fish,
And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And how their branches at a wish:
Of arbours filled with dainty scents
From lovely flowers that never fade;
Bright flies that glitter in the sun,
And glow-worms shining in the shade.
And talking birds with gifted tongues,
For singing songs and telling tales,
And pretty dwarfs to show the way
Through fairy hills and fairy dales.
But when a bad child goes to bed,
From left to right she weaves her rings,
And then it dreams all through the night
Of only ugly horrid things!
Then lions come with glaring eyes,
And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,
And ogres draw their cruel knives,
To shed the blood of girls and boys.
Then stormy waves rush on to drown,
Or raging flames come scorching round,
Fierce dragons hover in the air,
And serpents crawl along the ground.
Then wicked children wake and weep,
And wish the long black gloom away;
But good ones love the dark, and find
The night as pleasant as the day.
EPIGRAM. MY HEART’S WOUND UP JUST LIKE A WATCH
My heart’s wound up just like a watch,
As far as springs will take —
It wants but one more evil turn,
And then the cords will break!
EPIGRAM. AS HUMAN FASHIONS CHANGE ABOUT
As human fashions change about,
The reign of fools should now begin;
&n
bsp; For when the Wigs are going out,
The Naturals are coming in!
TO MINERVA
FROM THE GREEK
My temples throb, my pulses boil,
I’m sick of Song and Ode, and Ballad —
So, Thyrsis, take the Midnight Oil
And pour it on a lobster salad.
My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read —
Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a lark instead.
FRAGMENT
PROBABLY WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS
I’m sick of gruel, and the dietetics,
I’m sick of pills, and sicker of emetics,
I’m sick of pulses’ tardiness or quickness,
I’m sick of blood, its thinness or its thickness,
In short, within a word, I’m sick of sickness!
GUIDO AND MARINA
A DRAMATIC SKETCH
[Guido, having given himself up to the pernicious study of magic and astrology casts his nativity, and resolves that at a certain hour of a certain day he is to die. Marina, to wean him from this fatal delusion, which hath gradually wasted him away, even to the verge of death, advances the hour-hand of the clock. He is supposed to be seated beside her in the garden of his palace at Venice.]
Guido. Clasp me again! My soul is very sad;
And hold thy lips in readiness near mine,
Lest I die suddenly. Clasp me again!
’Tis such a gloomy day!
Mar. — Nay, sweet, it shines.
Guido. Nay, then, these mortal clouds are in mine eyes.
Clasp me again! — ay, with thy fondest force,
Give me one last embrace.
Mar. — Love, I do clasp thee!
Guido. Then closer — closer — for I feel thee not;
Unless thou art this pain around my heart.
Thy lips at such a time should never leave me.
Mar. What pain — what time, love? Art thou ill? Alas!
I see it in thy cheek. Come, let me nurse thee.
Here, rest upon my heart.
Guido. — Stay, stay, Marina.
Look! — when I raise my hand against the sun,
Is it red with blood?
Mar. — Alas! my love, what wilt thou?
Thy hand is red — and so is mine — all hands
Show thus against the sun.
Guido. — All living men’s,
Marina, but not mine. Hast never heard
How death first seizes on the feet and hands,
And thence goes freezing to the very heart? —
Mar. Yea, love, I know it; but what then? — the hand
I hold is glowing.
Guido. — But my eyes! — my eyes! —
Look there, Marina — there is death’s own sign.
I have seen a corpse,
E’en when its clay was cold, would still have seem’d
Alive, but for the eyes — such deadly eyes!
So dull and dim! Marina, look in mine!
Mar. Ay, they are dull. No, no — not dull, but bright:
I see myself within them. Now, dear love,
Discard these horrid fears that make me weep.
Guido. Marina, Marina — where thy image lies,
There must be brightness — or perchance they glance
And glimmer like the lamp before it dies.
Oh, do not vex my soul with hopes impossible!
My hours are ending. — [Clock strikes.
Mar. — Nay, they shall not! Hark!
The hour — four — five — hark! — six! — the very time!
And, lo! thou art alive! My love — dear love —
Now cast this cruel phantasm from thy brain —
This wilful, wild delusion — cast it off!
The hour is come — and gone! What! not a word! —
What, not a smile, even, that thou livest for me!
Come, laugh and clap your hands as I do — come.
Or kneel with me, and thank th’ eternal God
For this blest passover! Still sad! still mute! —
Oh, why art thou not glad, as I am glad,
That death forbears thee? Nay, hath all my love
Been spent in vain, that thou art sick of life?
Guido. Marina, I am no more attach’d to death
Than Fate hath doomed me. I am his elect,
That even now forestalls thy little light,
And steals with cold infringement on my breath:
Already he bedims my spiritual lamp,
Not yet his due — not yet — quite yet, though Time,
Perchance, to warn me, speaks before his wont:
Some minutes’ space my blood has still to flow —
Some scanty breath is left me still to spend
In very bitter sighs.
But there’s a point, true measured by my pulse,
Beyond or short of which it may not live
By one poor throb. Marina, it is near.
Mar. Oh, God of heaven!
Guido. — Ay, it is very near,
Therefore, cling now to me, and say farewell
While I can answer it. Marina, speak!
Why tear thine helpless hair? it will not save
Thy heart from breaking, nor pluck out the thought
That stings thy brain. Oh, surely thou hast known
This truth too long to look so like Despair?
Mar. O, no, no, no! — a hope — a little hope —
I had erewhile — but I have heard its knell.
Oh, would my life were measured out with thine —
All my years number’d — all my days, my hours,
My utmost minutes, all summ’d up with thine!
Guido. Marina —
Mar. — Let me weep — no, let me kneel
To God — but rather thee — to spare this end
That is so wilful. Oh, for pity’s sake!
Pluck back thy precious spirit from these clouds
That smother it with death. Oh! turn from death,
And do not woo it with such dark resolve,
To make me widow’d.
Guido. — I have lived my term.
Mar. No — not thy term — no! not the natural term
Of one so young. Oh! thou hast spent thy years
In sinful waste upon unholy —
Guido. — Hush! Marina.
Mar. Nay, I must. Oh! cursed lore,
That hath supplied this spell against thy life.
Unholy learning — devilish and dark —
Study! O, God! O, God! — how can thy stars
Be bright with such black knowledge? Oh, that men
Should ask more light of them than guides their steps
At evening to love!
Guido. — Hush, hush, oh hush!
Thy words have pain’d me in the midst of pain.
True, if I had not read, I should not die;
For, if I had not read, I had not been.
All our acts of life are pre-ordain’d,
And each pre-acted, in our several spheres,
By ghostly duplicates. They sway our deeds
By their performance. What if mine hath been
To be a prophet and foreknow my doom?
If I had closed my eyes, the thunder then
Had roar’d it in my ears; my own mute brain
Had told it with a tongue. What must be, must.
Therefore I knew when my full time would fall;
And now — to save thy widowhood of tears —
To spare the very breaking of thy heart,
I may not gain even a brief hour’s reprieve!
What seest thou yonder?
Mar. — Where? — a tree — the sun
Sinking behind a tree.
Guido. — It is no tree,
Marina, but a shape — the awful shape
That comes to, claim me. Seest thou not his shade
Dark
en before his steps? Ah me! how cold
It comes against my feet! Cold, icy cold! —
And blacker than a pall.
Mar. — My love!
Guido. — Oh heaven
And earth, where are ye? Marina — [Guido dies.
Mar. — I am here!
What wilt thou? dost thou speak? — Methought I heard thee
Just whispering. He is dead? — O God! he’s dead!
FRAGMENTS
The Lay of the Lark
With dew upon its breast
And sunshine on its wing,
The lark uprose from its happy nest
And thus it seemed to sing: —
‘Sweet, sweet! from the middle of the wheat
To meet the morning gray,
To leave the corn on a very merry morn,
Nor have to curse the day.’
* * * * * *
With the dew upon their breast,
And the sunlight on their wing,
Towards the skies from the furrows rise
The larks, and thus they sing: —
‘If you would know the cause
That makes us sing so gay,
It is because we hail and bless,
And never curse the day.
Sweet, sweet! from the middle of the wheat
[Where lurk our callow brood)
Where we were hatch’d, and fed
Amidst the corn on a very merry morn —
(We never starve for food.)
We never starve for bread!’
* * * * * *
