by Thomas Hood
Those flowers so very blue
Those poppies flaming red,
* * * * * *
His heavy eye was glazed and dull
He only murmur’d ‘bread!’
‘Farewell — Farewell’ — it is an awful word
When that the quick do speak it to the dead;
For though ’tis brief upon the speaker’s lips,
’Tis more than death can answer to, and hath
No living echo on the living ear.
* * * * * *
’Tis awful to behold the midnight stars
They say do rule the destinies of men,
Gazing upon ns from that point of space,
Where they were set even from their lustrous birth,
With a most sure foreknowledge of our doom
Watching its consummation,
I had a dream — the summer beam
Play’d on the wings of merry hours —
(Made long smiles of merry hours;)
But Life ‘gan throw a warp of woe,
Across its tapestry of flowers,
Fears darker shade took form and made —
Like shadows darkling in light most sparkling.
* * * * *
The fragrant tombs amid the blooms
Of April in a garden ground
Show’d many a name that none could claim —
Half-read between the roses round.
Unbanish’d clouds like coffin-shrouds
Neighbour’d the sun amid the blue,
And tearful streams mix’d with his beams,
Yet made no promise as they flew.
* * * * *
Young Hope indeed began to read
The prophecies with cheerful look,
But dark Despair look’d over there,
And wept black blots upon her book.
And scarce the form all bright and warm —
Of Joy was woven into birth
When, like her shade, black Grief was laid
Prone at her feet along the earth.
* * * * * *
Then do not chide — the sunny side
Of monuments for Joy is made,
But Sorrow still must weep her fill
On those that lie beneath the shade.
To note the symptoms of the times,
Its cruel and cold-blooded crimes,
One sure result we win.
Tho’ rude and rougher modes, no doubt,
Of murther are not going out,
That poison’s coming in.
* * * * * *
The powder that the doomed devour
And drink, for sugar, meal, or flour,
Narcotics for the young —
And worst of all, that subtle juice
That can a sudden death produce,
Whilst yet upon the tongue.
So swift in its destructive pace,
Easy to give, and hard to trace,
So potable — so clear!
So small the dreadful dose — to slip
Between the fatal cup and lip
In Epsom salts or beer.
* * * * * *
Arrest the plague with Cannabis —
And * * * publish this —
To quench the felon’s hope: —
Twelve drops of Prussic acid still
Are not more prompt and sure to kill,
Than one good Drop of Rope.
Jove’s Eagle Asleep
I saw, through his eyelids, the might of his eyes. —
River of Life
Those waters you hear,
Yet see not — they flow so invisibly clear.
Night
Shedder of secret tears
Felt upon unseen pillows — shade of Death!
The Sun and Moon
Father of light — and she, its mother mild.
The Moon
Sometimes she riseth from her shroud
Like the pale apparition of a sun.
Mercury
That bantam Mercury, with feathered heels.
A Lady
She sighed
And paleness came, like moonlight, o’er her face.
She was like an angel in mosaic,
Made up of many-coloured virtues.
A friendless heart is like a hollow shell,
That sighs o’er its own emptiness.
He lay with a dead passion on his face,
Like a storm stiffen’d in ice.
Sometimes Hope
Singeth so plaintively, ’tis like Despair.
Her smile can make dull Melancholy grow
Transparent to the secret hope below.
Morning
Surely this is the birthday of no grief,
That dawns so pleasantly along the skies!
The lusty Morn
Cometh, all flushed, and singing, from a feast
Of wine and music in the odorous East.
The sun unglues
The crimson leaves of Morning, that doth lie,
Like a streaked rosebud in the orient sky.
LAMIA
A ROMANCE.
SCENE I.
A mossy Bank with trees, on the high Road near Corinth.
Enter Lamia.
Lamia.
Here I’ll sit down and watch; till his dear foot
Pronounce him to my ear. That eager hope
Hath won me from the brook before I view’d
My unacquainted self. — But yet it seem’d
A most rare change, — and methinks the change
Has left the old fascination in my eyes.
Look, here’s a shadow of the shape I am —
A dainty shadow! [She sits down on the bank.
How fair the world seems now myself am fair!
These dewy daffodils! these sweet green trees!
I’ve coiled about their roots — but now I pluck
Their drooping branches with this perfect hand!
Sure those were Dryades
That with such glancing looks peep’d thro’ the green
To gaze upon my beauty. [Lycius enters and passes on without noting her.
Lycius! sweet Lycius! — what, so cruel still!
What have I done thou ne’er wilt deign a look,
But pass me like a worm?
Lycius.
Ha! who art thou? [Looking back.
O Goddess, (for there is no mortal tint,
No line about thee lower than divine)
What may that music mean, thy tuneful tongue
Hath sent in chase of me? — I slight! I scorn thee!
By all the light of day, till this kind hour
I never saw that face! — nor one as fair.
Lamia.
O fie, fie, fie! — what, have you never met
That face at Corinth? — turn’d too oft towards you,
Like the poor maidens that adored Apollo: —
You must have mark’d it! —
Lycius.
Nay, then hear me swear!
By all Olympus and its starry thrones, —
My eyes have never chanced so sweet a sight,
Not in my summer dreams! —
Lamia.
Enough, enough! — why then I’ve watched in vain —
Track’d all your ways, and follow’d like your shadow;
Hung you with blessings — haunted you with love —
And waited on your aspect — all in vain! —
I might as well have spent my loving looks
Like Ariadne, — on the sullen sea
And hoped for a reflection. Youth, farewell.
Lycius.
O not yet — not yet farewell!
Let such an unmatch’d vision still shine on,
Till I have set an impress in my heart
To cope with life’s decay!
Lamia.
You say but well.
I must soon hie me to my elements;
But take your pleasure at my looks till then.
Lycius
You are not of this, then? [Sadly.
Lamia.
Of this earth?
Why not? And of this same and pleasant isle.
My world is yours, and I would have no other.
One earth, one sea, one sky, in one horizon,
Our room is wide enough, unless you hate me.
Lycius.
Hate you!
Lamia.
Then you may wish to set the stars between us,
The dim and utter lamps of east and west.
So far you’d have me from you.
Lycius.
Cruel Syren!
To set your music to such killing speech.
Look if my eyes turn from you, — if my brows,
Or any hinting featnre shows dislike.
Nay, hear my lips —
Lamia.
If they will promise love
Or talk of it; but chide, and you will kill me!
Lycius.
Then, love, speak forth a promise for thyself,
And all heaven’s witnesses be by to hear thee. —
Lamia.
Hold, hold! I’m satisfied. You’ll love me, then?
Lycius.
With boundless, endless love.
Lamia.
Aye, give me much on’t — for you owe me much,
If you knew all.
I’ve lick’d the very dust whereon you tread —
Lycius.
It is not true!
Lamia.
I’ll swear it if you will. Jove heard the words,
And knows they are sadly true.
Lycius.
And this for me!
Lamia.
Aye, sweet, and more. A poor, fond wretch, I fill’d
The flowers with my tears; and lay supine
In coverts wild and rank — fens, horrid, desolate!
’Twould shock your very soul if you could see
How this poor figure once was marr’d and vilified,
How grovell’d and debased; contemn’d and hated
By my own self, because, with all its charms,
It then could hope no favour in your eyes;
And so I hid it,
With toads and newts, and hideous shiny things,
Under old ruins, in vile solitudes,
Making their haunts my own.
Lycius.
’Tis strange and piteous, — Why, then, you madden’d?
Lamia.
I was not quite myself — (not what I am) —
Yet something of the woman staid within me,
To weep she was not dead.
Lycius.
Is this no fable?
Lamia.
O most mistrustful Lycius! Hear me call
On Heaven, anew, for vouchers to these facts. [It thunders.
There! Could’st thou question that? Sweet skies I thank ye!
Now, Lycius, doubt me if you may or can;
And leave me if you will. I can but turn
The wretched creature that I was, again,
Crush’d by our equal hate. Once more, farewell.
Lycius.
Farewell, but not till death. O gentlest, dearest,
Forgive my doubts. I have but paused till now
To ask, if so much bliss could be no dream.
Now I am sure ——
Thus I embrace it with my whole glad heart
For ever and for ever: I could weep.
Thy tale hath shown me such a matchless love,
It makes the elder chronicles grow dim.
I always thought
I wander’d all uncared for on my way,
Betide me good or ill — nor caused more tears
Than hung upon my sword. Yet I was hung
With dews, rich pearly dews — shed from such spheres
As sprinkle them in amber. Thanks, bounteous stars.
Henceforth you shall but rain your beams upon me
To bless my brighten’d days.
Lamia.
O sweet! sweet! sweet!
To hear you parley thus and gaze upon you!
Lycius, dear Lycius!
But tell me, dearest, will you never — never
Think lightly of myself, nor scorn a love
Too frankly set before you! because ’twas given
Unask’d, though you should never, give again:
Because it was a gift and not a purchase —
A boon, and not a debt; not love for love,
Where one half’s due for gratitude.
Lycius.
Thrice gracious seems thy gift!
Lamia.
Oh, no! Oh, no!
I should have made you wait, and beg, and kneel,
And swear as though I could but half believe you;
I have not even stay’d to prove your patience
By crosses and feign’d slights, — giv’n you no time
For any bribing gifts or costly shows.
I know you will despise me.
Lycius.
Never, never,
So long as I have sight within these balls,
Which only now I’ve learn’d to thank the Gods for.
Lamia.
’Tis prettily sworn; and frankly I’ll believe you!
Now shall we on our way? I have a house
(Till now no home) within the walls of Corinth:
Will you not master it as well as me?
Lycius.
My home is in your heart; but where you dwell,
There is my dwelling-place. But let me bear you, sweet!
Lamia.
No, I can walk, if you will charm the way
With such discourse; it makes my heart so light,
I seem to have wings within; or, if I tire,
I’ll lean upon you thus.
Lycius.
So lean for ever! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Market-place at Corinth.
Apollonius is discovered discoursing with various young Gallants,
namely, Meroutius, Curio, &c.
Apollonius.
Hush Sirs! —
You raise a tingling blush about my ears,
That drink such ribaldry and wanton jests, —
For shame! — for shame! —
You misapply good gifts the gods have granted!
Mercutius.
The gods have made us tongues, — brains too, I hope —
And time will bring us beards.
You sages think Minerva’s owl dwells only in such bushes.
Curio.
Ha! ha! — Why we’ll have wigs upon our chins —
Long grizzled ones — and snarl about the streets,
Hugged up in pride and spleen like any mantle,
And be philosophers!
Apollonius.
You will do wisely.
Curio.
Ay, — I hope — why not?
Though age has heap’d no winter on our pates.
Is wisdom such a frail and spoiling thing
It must be packed in ice?
Gallo.
Or sopp’d in vinegar?
Apollonius.
We would you were more grey —
Mercutius.
Why would you have us grey before our time?
Oh, Life’s poor capital is too soon spent
Without discounting it. Pray do not grudge us
Our share; — a little wine, — a little love, —
A little youth! — a little, little folly,
Since wisdom has the gross. When they are past
We’ll preach with you, and call ‘em vanities.
Apollonius.
No! — leave that to your mummies. Sure your act
Will purchase you an enbalming. Let me see! —
Here’s one hath spent his fortune on a harlot,
And, — if he kept to one it was a merit! —
The next has rid the world of so much wine, —
>
Why that’s a benefit. And you Sir Plume,
Have tum’d your Tailor to a Senator; —
You’ve made no man the worse — (for manner’s sake;
My speech exempts yourself). You’ve all done well,
If not, — your dying shall be placed to your credit.
Curio.
You show us bravely — could you ever praise one?
Apollonius.
One! and no more! why then I answer, yes, —
Or rather, no; for I could never praise him.
He’s as beyond my praise, as your complexion, —
I wish you’d take a pattern! —
Curio.
Of whose back, sir?
Apollonius.
Aye there you must begin and try to match
The very shadow of his virtuous worth,
Before you’re half a man.
Mercutius.
Who is this model?
An ape — an Afric ape — what he and Plato
Conspire to call a Man.
Apollonius.
Then you’re a man already; but no model,
So I must set my own example up;
To show you Virtue, Temperance, and Wisdom,
And in a youth too! —
Not in a wither’d greybeard like myself,
In whom some virtues are mere worn-out vices,
And wisdom but a due and tardy fruit.
He, like the orange, bears both fruit and flower
Upon his odorous bough — the fair and ripe! —
Curio.
Why you can praise too!
Apollonius.
As well as I dispraise: — They’re both in one
