Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works Page 27

  I’d “kiss the rod,” and be resign’d

  Beneath the stroke, and even find

  Some sugar in the cane!

  XIV.

  The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!

  The Fairy Tales in school-time read,

  By stealth, ‘twixt verb and noun!

  The angel form that always walk’d

  In all my dreams, and look’d and talk’d

  Exactly like Miss Brown!

  XV.

  The omne bene — Christmas come!

  The prize of merit, won for home —

  Merit had prizes then!

  But now I write for days and days,

  For fame — a deal of empty praise,

  Without the silver pen!

  XVI.

  Then “home, sweet home!” the crowded coach —

  The joyous shout — the loud approach —

  The winding horns like rams’!

  The meeting sweet that made me thrill,

  The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still,

  No ‘satis’ to the ‘jams’! —

  XVII.

  When that 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!

  FAIR INES.

  O Saw ye not fair Ines?

  She’s gone into the West,

  To dazzle when the sun is down,

  And rob the world of rest:

  She took our daylight with her,

  The smiles that we love best,

  With morning blushes on her cheek,

  And pearls upon her breast.

  O turn again, fair Ines,

  Before the fall of night,

  For fear the moon should shine alone,

  And stars unrivall’d bright;

  And blessed will the lover be

  That walks beneath their light,

  And breathes the love against thy cheek

  I dare not even write!

  Would I had been, fair Ines,

  That gallant cavalier,

  Who rode so gaily by thy side,

  And whisper’d thee so near!

  Were there no bonny dames at home,

  Or no true lovers here,

  That he should cross the seas to win

  The dearest of the dear?

  I saw thee, lovely Ines,

  Descend along the shore,

  With bands of noble gentlemen,

  And banners waved before;

  And gentle youth and maidens gay,

  And snowy plumes they wore;

  It would have been a beauteous dream,

  — If it had been no more!

  Alas, alas, fair Ines,

  She went away with song,

  With Music waiting on her steps,

  And shoutings of the throng;

  But some were sad, and felt no mirth,

  But only Musics wrong,

  In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,

  To her you’ve loved so long.

  Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

  That vessel never bore

  So fair a lady on its deck,

  Nor danced so light before, —

  Alas, for pleasure on the sea,

  And sorrow on the shore!

  The smile that blest one lover’s heart

  Has broken many more!

  THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.

  Summer is gone on swallows’ wings,

  And Earth has buried all her flowers:

  No more the lark, — the linnet — sings,

  But Silence sits in faded bowers.

  There is a shadow on the plain

  Of Winter ere he comes again, —

  There is in woods a solemn sound

  Of hollow warnings whisper’d round,

  As Echo in her deep recess

  For once had turn’d a prophetess.

  Shuddering Autumn stops to list,

  And breathes his fear in sudden sighs,

  With clouded face, and hazel eyes

  That quench themselves, and hide in mist.

  Yes, Summer’s gone like pageant bright;

  Its glorious days of golden light

  Are gone — the mimic suns that quiver,

  Then melt in Time’s dark-flowing river.

  Gone the sweetly-scented breeze

  That spoke in music to the trees;

  Gone — for damp and chilly breath,

  As if fresh blown o’er marble seas,

  Or newly from the lungs of Death.

  Gone its virgin roses’ blushes,

  Warm as when Aurora rushes

  Freshly from the God’s embrace,

  With all her shame upon her face.

  Old Time hath laid them in the mould;

  Sure he is blind as well as old,

  Whose hand relentless never spares

  Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs!

  Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now

  From where so blushing-blest they tarried

  Under the hawthorn’s blossom-bough,

  Gone; for Day and Night are married.

  All the light of love is fled: —

  Alas! that negro breasts should hide

  The lips that were so rosy red,

  At morning and at even-tide!

  Delightful Summer! then adieu

  Till thou shalt visit us anew:

  But who without regretful sigh

  Can say, adieu, and see thee fly?

  Not he that e’er hath felt thy pow’r.

  His joy expanding like a flow’r,

  That cometh after rain and snow,

  Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow: —

  Not he that fled from Babel-strife

  To the green sabbath-land of life,

  To dodge dull Care ‘mid clustered trees,

  And cool his forehead in the breeze, —

  Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance,

  Shook from its wings a weight of grief,

  And perch’d upon an aspen leaf,

  For every breath to make it dance.

  Farewell! — on wings of sombre stain,

  That blacken in the last blue skies,

  Thou fly’st; but thou wilt come again

  On the gay wings of butterflies.

  Spring at thy approach will sprout

  Her new Corinthian beauties out,

  Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words

  Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds;

  Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers,

  And April smiles to sunny hours,

  Bright days shall be, and gentle nights

  Full of soft breath and echo-lights,

  As if the god of sun-time kept

  His eyes half-open while he slept.

  Roses shall be where roses were,

  Not shadows, but reality;

  As if they never perished there,

  But slept in immortality:

  Nature shall thrill with new delight,

  And Time’s relumined river run

  Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright,

  As if its source were in the sun!

  But say, hath Winter then no charms?

  Is there no joy, no gladness warms

  His aged heart? no happy wiles

  To cheat the hoary one to smiles?

  Onward he comes — the cruel North

  Pours his furious whirlwind forth

  Before him — and we breathe the breath

  Of famish’d bears that howl to death.

  Onward he comes from the rocks that blanch

  O’er solid streams that never flow:

  His tears all ice, his locks all snow,

  Just crept from some huge avalanche —

  A thing half-breathing and half-warm,

  As if one spark began to glow

  Within some statue’s marble f
orm,

  Or pilgrim stiffened in the storm.

  Oh! will not Mirth’s light arrows fail

  To pierce that frozen coat of mail?

  Oh! will not joy but strive in vain

  To light up those glazed eyes again?

  No! take him in, and blaze the oak,

  And pour the wine, and warm the ale;

  His sides shall shake to many a joke,

  His tongue shall thaw in many a tale,

  His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay,

  And even his palsy charm’d away.

  What heeds he then the boisterous shout

  Of angry winds that scowl without,

  Like shrewish wives at tavern door?

  What heeds he then the wild uproar

  Of billows bursting on the shore?

  In dashing waves, in howling breeze,

  There is a music that can charm him;

  When safe, and sheltered, and at ease,

  He hears the storm that cannot harm him.

  But hark! those shouts! that sudden din

  Of little hearts that laugh within.

  Oh! take him where the youngsters play,

  And he will grow as young as they!

  They come! they come! each blue-eyed Sport,

  The Twelfth-Night King and all his court —

  ’Tis Mirth fresh crown’d with misletoe!

  Music with her merry fiddles,

  Joy “on light fantastic toe,”

  Wit with all his jests and riddles,

  Singing and dancing as they go.

  And Love, young Love, among the rest,

  A welcome — nor unbidden guest.

  But still for Summer dost thou grieve?

  Then read our Poets — they shall weave

  A garden of green fancies still,

  Where thy wish may rove at will.

  They have kept for after-treats

  The essences of summer sweets,

  And echoes of its songs that wind

  In endless music through the mind:

  They have stamp’d in visible traces

  The “thoughts that breathe,” in words that shine —

  The flights of soul in sunny places —

  To greet and company with thine.

  These shall wing thee on to flow’rs —

  The past or future, that shall seem

  All the brighter in thy dream

  For blowing in such desert hours.

  The summer never shines so bright

  As thought-of in a winter’s night;

  And the sweetest loveliest rose

  Is in the bud before it blows;

  The dear one of the lover’s heart

  Is painted to his longing eyes,

  In charms she ne’er can realize —

  But when she turns again to part.

  Dream thou then, and bind thy brow

  With wreath of fancy roses now,

  And drink of Summer in the cup

  Where the Muse hath mix’d it up;

  The “dance, and song, and sun-burnt mirth,”

  With the warm nectar of the earth:

  Drink! ‘twill glow in every vein,

  And thou shalt dream the winter through:

  Then waken to the sun again,

  And find thy Summer Vision true!

  SONG: A LAKE AND A FAIRY BOAT

  A lake and a fairy boat

  To sail in the moonlight clear,

  And merrily we would float

  From the dragons that watch us here!

  Thy gown should be snow-white silk

  And strings of oriental pearls,

  Like gossamers dipped in milk,

  Should twine with thy raven curls!

  Red rubies should deck thy hands,

  And diamonds should be thy dower —

  But fairies have broke their wands,

  And wishing has lost its power!

  ODE.

  AUTUMN.

  I saw old Autumn in the misty morn

  Stand shadowless like Silence, listening

  To silence, for no lonely bird would sing

  Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,

  Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;

  Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright

  With tangled gossamer that fell by night,

  Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

  Where are the songs of Summer? — With the sun,

  Opening the dusky eyelids of the south,

  Till shade and silence waken up as one,

  And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.

  Where are the merry birds? — Away, away,

  On panting wings through the inclement skies,

  Lest owls should prey

  Undazzled at noon-day,

  And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

  Where are the blooms of Summer? — In the west,

  Blushing their last to the last sunny hours.

  When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest

  Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs

  To a most gloomy breast.

  Where is the pride of Summer, — the green prime, —

  The many, many leaves all twinkling? — Three

  On the moss’d elm; three on the naked lime

  Trembling, — and one upon the old oak tree!

  Where is the Dryad’s immortality? —

  Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,

  Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through

  In the smooth holly’s green eternity.

  The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard,

  The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain,

  And honey been save stored

  The sweets of summer in their luscious cells;

  The swallows all have wing’d across the main;

  But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,

  And sighs her tearful spells

  Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.

  Alone, alone,

  Upon a mossy stone,

  She sits and reckons up the dead and gone,

  With the last leaves for a love-rosary;

  Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily,

  Like a dim picture of the drownëd past

  In the hush’d mind’s mysterious far-away,

  Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last

  Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

  O go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded

  Under the languid downfall of her hair;

  She wears a coronal of flowers faded

  Upon her forehead, and a face of care; —

  There is enough of wither’d everywhere

  To make her bower, — and enough of gloom;

  There is enough of sadness to invite,

  If only for the rose that died, whose doom

  Is Beauty’s, — she that with the living bloom

  Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:

  There is enough of sorrowing, and quite

  Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, —

  Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl;

  Enough of fear and shadowy despair,

  To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

  BALLAD. SPRING IT IS CHEERY.

  Spring it is cheery,

  Winter is dreary,

  Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;

  When he’s forsaken,

  Wither’d and shaken,

  What can an old man do but die?

  Love will not clip him,

  Maids will not lip him,

  Maud and Marian pass him by;

  Youth it is sunny,

  Age has no honey, —

  What can an old man do but die?

  June it was jolly,

  Oh for its folly!

  A dancing leg and a laughing eye;

  Youth may be silly,

  Wisdom is chilly, —

  What can an ol
d man do but die?

  Friends, they are scanty,

  Beggars are plenty,

  If he has followers, I know why;

  Gold’s in his clutches,

  (Buying him crutches!)

  What can an old man do but die?

  HYMN TO THE SUN.

  Giver of glowing light!

  Though but a god of other days,

  The kings and sages

  Of wiser ages

  Still live and gladden in thy genial rays!

  King of the tuneful lyre,

  Still poets’ hymns to thee belong;

  Though lips are cold

  Whereon of old

  Thy beams all turn’d to worshipping and song!

  Lord of the dreadful bow,

  None triumph now for Python’s death;

  But thou dost save

  From hungry grave

  The life that hangs upon a summer breath.

  Father of rosy day,

  No more thy clouds of incense rise;

  But waking flow’rs

  At morning hours,

  Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

  God of the Delphic fame,

  No more thou listenest to hymns sublime;

  But they will leave

  On winds at eve,

  A solemn echo to the end of time.

  TO A COLD BEAUTY.

  Lady, wouldst thou heiress be

  To Winters cold and cruel part?

  When he sets the rivers free,

  Thou dost still lock up thy heart; —

  Thou that shouldst outlast the snow,

  But in the whiteness of thy brow?

  Scorn and cold neglect are made

  For winter gloom and winter wind,

  But thou wilt wrong the summer air,

  Breathing it to words unkind, —

  Breath which only should belong

  To love, to sunlight, and to song!

  When the little buds unclose.

  Red, and white, and pied, and blue,

  And that virgin flow’r, the rose,

  Opes her heart to hold the dew,

  Wilt thou lock thy bosom up

  With no jewel in its cup?

  Let not cold December sit

  Thus in Love’s peculiar throne: