Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works Page 26
To kiss him, — but he cruel-kindly, alas!
Held out to my lips a pluck’d handful of grass!
Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled
The stone he indignantly hurl’d at my head,
That dissever’d my ear, — but I felt not, whose fate
Was to meet more distress in his love that his hate!
Thus I wander’d, companion’d of grief and forlorn
Till I wish’d for that land where my being was born
But what was that land with its love, where my home
Was self-shut against me; for why should I come
Like an after-distress to my gray-bearded father,
With a blight to the last of his sight? — let him rather
Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn
Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn
To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how
Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now
Like Gods to my humbled estate? — or how bear
The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care
Of my hands? Then I turn’d me self-banish’d, and came
Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same
As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream
In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream
That made wretches of many, as she roll’d her wild eyes
Against heaven, and so vanish’d. — The gentle and wise
Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill
In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still.
THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.
I.
Alas! That breathing Vanity should go
Where Pride is buried, — like its very ghost,
Uprisen from the naked bones below,
In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast
Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,
Shedding its chilling superstition most
On young and ignorant natures — as it wont
To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!
II.
Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green
Shining, far distant, in the summer air
That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between
Their downy plumes, — sailing as if they were
Two far-off ships, — until they brush between
The churchyard’s humble walls, and watch and wait
On either side of the wide open’d gate,
III.
And there they stand — with haughty necks before
God’s holy house, that points towards the skies —
Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,
And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes:
And Youth looks lingering from the temple door,
Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,
With pouting lips, — forgetful of the grace,
Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face; —
IV.
Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,
May wear the happiness of rich attire;
And those two sisters, in their silly pride,
May change the soul’s warm glances for the fire
Of lifeless diamonds; — and for health denied, —
With art, that blushes at itself, inspire
Their languid cheeks — and flourish in a glory
That has no life in life, nor after-story.
V.
The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray’r,
And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by,
Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly
Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so gray in goodness and in days?
VI.
Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame
Of this ungodly shine of human pride,
And sadly blends his reverence and blame
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride
Impatient: — many a red-hooded dame
Turns her pain’d head, but not her glance, aside
From wanton dress, and marvels o’er again,
That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.
VII.
“I have a lily in the bloom at home,”
Quoth one, “and by the blessed Sabbath day
I’ll pluck my lily in its pride, and come
And read a lesson upon vain array; —
And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some
Give place, I’ll shake it in proud eyes and say —
Making my reverence,— ‘Ladies, an you please,
King Solomon’s not half so fine as these,’”
VIII.
Then her meek partner, who has nearly run
His earthly course,— “Nay, Goody, let your text
Grow in the garden. — We have only one —
Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next?
Summer will come again, and summer sun,
And lilies too, — but I were sorely vext
To mar my garden, and cut short the blow
Of the last lily I may live to grow,”
IX.
“The last!” quoth she, “and though the last it were —
Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud
With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair,
And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow’d
And curtsey’d to! — last Sabbath after pray’r,
I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud
If they were angels — but I made him know
God’s bright ones better, with a bitter blow!”
X.
So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk
That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng,
Hand-coupled urchins in restrainëd talk,
And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong,
And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk,
And gold-bedizen’d beadle flames along,
And gentle peasant clad in buff and green,
Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene;
XI.
And blushing maiden — modestly array’d
In spotless white, — still conscious of the glass;
And she, the lonely widow, that hath made
A sable covenant with grief, — alas!
She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade,
While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass,
Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress
Her boy, — so rosy! — and so fatherless!
XII.
Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near
The fair white temple, to the timely call
Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear. —
Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl
Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere
Of the low porch, and heav’n has won them all,
— Saying those two, that turn aside and pass,
In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass.
XIII.
Ah me! to see their silken manors trail’d
In purple luxuries — with restless gold, —
Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail’d
In blotted black, — over the heapy mould
Panting wave-wantonly! They never quail’d
How the warm vanity abused the cold;
Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone
Sadly uplooking through transparent stone:
XIV.
But swept their dwellings with unquiet light,
Shocking the awful presence of the dead;
Where gracious natures would thei
r eyes benight,
Nor wear their being with a lip too red,
Nor move too rudely in the summer bright
Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread,
Meting it into steps, with inward breath,
In very pity to bereaved death.
XV.
Now in the church, time-sober’d minds resign
To solemn pray’r, and the loud chaunted hymn, —
With glowing picturings of joys divine
Painting the mist-light where the roof is dim;
But youth looks upward to the window shine,
Warming with rose and purple and the swim
Of gold, as if thought-tinted by the stains
Of gorgeous light through many-color’d panes;
XVI.
Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath
Enrobed his angels, — and with absent eyes
Hearing of Heav’n, and its directed path,
Thoughtful of slippers — and the glorious skies
Clouding with satin, — till the preacher’s wrath
Consumes his pity, and he glows and cries
With a deep voice that trembles in its might,
And earnest eyes grow eloquent in light:
XVII.
“Oh, that the vacant eye would learn to look
On very beauty, and the heart embrace
True loveliness, and from this holy book
Drink the warm-breathing tenderness and grace
Of love indeed! Oh, that the young soul took
Its virgin passion from the glorious face
Of fair religion, and address’d its strife,
To win the riches of eternal life!”
XVIII.
“Doth the vain heart love glory that is none,
And the poor excellence of vain attire?
Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun,
The visible ruler of the starry quire,
Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run,
Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire;
And the faint soul down-darkens into night,
And dies a burning martyrdom to light.”
XIX.
Oh go, and gaze, — when the low winds of ev’n
Breathe hymns, and Nature’s many forests nod
Their gold-crown’d heads; and the rich blooms of heav’n
Sun-ripen’d give their blushes up to God;
And mountain-rocks and cloudy steeps are riv’n
By founts of fire, as smitten by the rod
Of heavenly Moses, — that your thirsty sense
May quench its longings of magnificence!
XX.
“Yet suns shall perish — stars shall fade away —
Day into darkness — darkness into death —
Death into silence; the warm light of day,
The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breath
Of even — all shall wither and decay,
Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath
The touch of morn — or bubbles of rich dyes
That break and vanish in the aching eyes.”
XXI.
They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shed
Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pour
Their sin to earth, — and with low drooping head
Receive the solemn blessing, and implore
Its grace — then soberly with chasten’d tread,
They meekly press towards the gusty door
With humbled eyes that go to graze upon
The lowly grass — like him of Babylon.
XXII.
The lowly grass! — O water-constant mind!
Fast-ebbing holiness! — soon-fading grace
Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind
Through the low porch had wash’d it from the face
For ever! — How they lift their eyes to find
Old vanities! — Pride wins the very place
Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now
With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow!
XXIII.
And lo! with eager looks they seek the way
Of old temptation at the lowly gate;
To feast on feathers, and on vain array,
And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state
Of jewel-sprinkled locks, — But where are they,
The graceless haughty ones that used to wait
With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen’d eye? —
None challenge the old homage bending by.
XXIV.
In vain they look for the ungracious bloom
Of rich apparel where it glow’d before, —
For Vanity has faded all to gloom,
And lofty Pride has stiffen’d to the core,
For impious Life to tremble at its doom, —
Set for a warning token evermore,
Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise
Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond’ring eyes.
XXV.
The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn,
But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair;
The solemn clerk goes lavender’d and shorn
Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair; —
And ancient lips that pucker’d up in scorn,
Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray’r;
And in the garden-plot, from day to day,
The lily blooms its long white life away.
XXVI.
And where two haughty maidens used to be,
In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod,
Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly,
Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod;
There, gentle stranger, thou may’st only see
Two sombre Peacocks.
Age, with sapient nod
Marking the spot, still tarries to declare
How they once lived, and wherefore they are there.
MINOR POEMS.
A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.
I.
Oh, when I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind! —
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!
II.
A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing; —
But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!
III.
My marbles — once my bag was stored, —
Now I must play with Elgin’s lord,
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipt his string,
Forgotten all his capering,
And harness’d to the law!
IV.
My kite — how fast and far it flew!
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
’Twas paper’d o’er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote — my present dreams
Will never soar so high!
V.
My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead; —
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
And seldom with a call!
VI.
My football’s laid upon the shelf;
I am a shuttlecock myself
The world knocks to and fro; —
My archery is all unlearn’d,
And grief against myself has turn’d
My arrows and my bow!
VII.
No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship’s an endless task,
My head’s ne’er out of school:
My he
art is pain’d with scorn and slight,
I have too many foes to fight,
And friends grown strangely cool!
VIII.
The very chum that shared my cake
Holds out so cold a hand to shake,
It makes me shrink and sigh: —
On this I will not dwell and hang, —
The changeling would not feel a pang
Though these should meet his eye!
IX.
No skies so blue or so serene
As then; — no leaves look half so green
As clothed the playground tree!
All things I loved are altered so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!
X.
Oh for the garb that marked the boy,
The trousers made of corduroy,
Well ink’d with black and red;
The crownless hat, ne’er deem’d an ill —
It only let the sunshine still
Repose upon my head!
XI.
Oh for the riband round the neck!
The careless dogs-ears apt to deck
My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth?
XII.
Oh for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven’s own type) that mild sky-blue
That wash’d my sweet meals down;
The master even! — and that small Turk
That fagg’d me! — worse is now my work —
A fag for all the town!
XIII.
Oh for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch’s smart
Should mark those hours again;