Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works Page 32

  Some moody turns he took, —

  Now up the mead, then down the mead,

  And past a shady nook, —

  And, lo! he saw a little boy

  That pored upon a book!

  VIII.

  “My gentle lad, what is’t you read —

  Romance or fairy fable?

  Of is it some historic page,

  Or kings and crowns unstable?”

  The young boy gave an upward glance, —

  “It is ‘The Death of Abel.’”

  IX.

  The Usher took six hasty strides,

  As smit with sudden pain, —

  Six hasty strides beyond the place,

  Then slowly back again;

  And down he sat beside the lad,

  And talk’d with him of Cain;

  X.

  And, long since then, of bloody men,

  Whose deeds tradition saves;

  Of lonely folk cut off unseen,

  And hid in sudden graves;

  Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,

  And murders done in caves;

  XI.

  And how the sprites of injured men

  Shriek upward from the sod, —

  Ay, how the ghostly hand will point

  To show the burial clod;

  And unknown facts of guilty acts

  Are seen in dreams from God!

  XII.

  He told how murderers walk the earth

  Beneath the curse of Cain, —

  With crimson clouds before their eyes,

  And flames about their brain:

  For blood has left upon their souls

  Its everlasting stain!

  XIII.

  “And well,” quoth he, “I know, for truth,

  Their pangs must be extreme, —

  Woe, woe, unutterable woe, —

  Who spill life’s sacred stream!

  For why? Methought, last night, I wrought

  A murder, in a dream!”

  XIV.

  “One that had never done me wrong —

  A feeble man, and old;

  I led him to a lonely field, —

  The moon shone clear and cold:

  Now here, said I, this man shall die,

  And I will have his gold!”

  XV.

  “Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,

  And one with a heavy stone,

  One hurried gash with a hasty knife, —

  And then the deed was done:

  There was nothing lying at my foot

  But lifeless flesh and bone!”

  XVI.

  “Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,

  That could not do me ill;

  And yet I feared him all the more,

  For lying there so still:

  There was a manhood in his look,

  That murder could not kill!”

  XVII.

  “And, lo! the universal air

  Seemed lit with ghastly flame; —

  Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes

  Were looking down in blame:

  I took the dead man by his hand,

  And called upon his name!”

  XVIII.

  “Oh, God! it made me quake to see

  Such sense within the slain!

  But when I touched the lifeless clay,

  The blood gush’d out amain!

  For every clot, a burning spot

  Was scorching in my brain!”

  XIX.

  “My head was like an ardent coal,

  My heart as solid ice:

  My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,

  Was at the Devil’s price:

  A dozen times I groan’d the dead

  Had never groan’d but twice!”

  XX.

  And now, from forth the frowning sky,

  From the Heaven’s topmost height,

  I heard a voice — the awful voice

  Of the blood-avenging Sprite: —

  “Thou guilty man! take up thy dead

  And hide it from my sight!”

  XXI.

  “I took the dreary body up,

  And cast it in a stream, —

  A sluggish water, black as ink,

  The depth was so extreme: —

  My gentle Boy, remember this

  Is nothing but a dream!”

  XXII.

  “Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,

  And vanish’d in the pool;

  Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,

  And wash’d my forehead cool,

  And sat among the urchins young,

  That evening in the school.”

  XXIII.

  “Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls,

  And mine so black and grim!

  I could not share in childish prayer,

  Nor join in Evening Hymn:

  Like a Devil of the Pit I seem’d,

  ‘Mid holy Cherubim!”

  XXIV.

  “And peace went with them, one and all,

  And each calm pillow spread:

  But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain

  That lighted me to bed;

  And drew my midnight curtains round,

  With fingers bloody red!”

  XXV.

  “All night I lay in agony,

  In anguish dark and deep;

  My fever’d eyes I dared not close,

  But stared aghast at Sleep:

  For Sin had render’d unto her

  The keys of Hell to keep!”

  XXVI.

  “All night I lay in agony,

  From weary chime to chime,

  With one besetting horrid hint,

  That rack’d me all the time;

  A mighty yearning, like the first

  Fierce impulse unto crime!”

  XXVII.

  “One stern tyrannic thought, that made

  All other thoughts its slave;

  Stronger and stronger every pulse

  Did that temptation crave, —

  Still urging me to go and see

  The Dead Man in his grave!”

  XXVIII.

  “Heavily I rose up, as soon

  As light was in the sky,

  And sought the black accursed pool

  With a wild misgiving eye;

  And I saw the Dead in the river bed,

  For the faithless stream was dry.”

  XXIX.

  “Merrily rose the lark, and shook

  The dew-drop from its wing;

  But I never mark’d its morning flight,

  I never heard it sing:

  For I was stooping once again

  Under the horrid thing.”

  XXX.

  “With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,

  I took him up and ran; —

  There was no time to dig a grave

  Before the day began:

  In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,

  I hid the murder’d man!”

  XXXI.

  “And all that day I read in school,

  But my thought was other where;

  As soon as the mid-day task was done,

  In secret I was there:

  And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,

  And still the corse was bare!”

  XXXII.

  “Then down I cast me on my face,

  And first began to weep,

  For I knew my secret then was one

  That earth refused to keep:

  Or land or sea, though he should be

  Ten thousand fathoms deep.”

  XXXIII.

  “So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,

  Till blood for blood atones!

  Ay, though he’s buried in a cave,

  And trodden down with stones,

  And years have rotted off his flesh, —

  The world shall see his bones!”

  XXXIV.

  “Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream
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  Besets me now awake!

  Again again, with dizzy brain,

  The human life I take;

  And my red right hand grows raging hot,

  Like Cranmer’s at the stake.”

  XXXV.

  “And still no peace for the restless clay

  Will wave or mould allow;

  The horrid thing pursues my soul, —

  It stands before me now!”

  The fearful Boy look’d up, and saw

  Huge drops upon his brow.

  XXXVI.

  That very night, while gentle sleep

  The urchin eyelids kiss’d,

  Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,

  Through the cold and heavy mist;

  And Eugene Aram walk’d between.

  With gyves upon his wrist.

  VERSES FROM TYLNEY HALL (1834)

  CONTENTS

  PLAY ON, YE TIMID RABBITS

  A DECLARATION

  THE STREAMLET

  TOM TATTERS’ BIRTHDAY ODE

  PLAY ON, YE TIMID RABBITS

  Play on, ye timid Rabbits!

  For I can see ye run,

  Ne’er thinking of a gun,

  Or of the ferret’s habits.

  Ye sportive Hares! go forcing

  The dewdrop from the bent;

  My mind is not intent

  On greyhounds or on coursing.

  Feed on, ye gorgeous Pheasants!

  My sight I do not vex —

  With cards about your necks,

  Forestalling you for presents.

  Go gazing on, and bounding,

  Thou solitary Deer!

  My fancy does not hear

  Hounds baying, and horns sounding.

  Each furr’d or feather’d creature,

  Enjoy with me this earth,

  Its life, its love, its mirth,

  And die the death of nature! —

  A DECLARATION

  If to believe that dreams were truth,

  And all the fond romance of youth;

  Each pictured charm that fancy prized

  In one fair form now realized —

  If to sum up in that dear scope

  My all of joy, my all of hope;

  Where faithlessness there could be none,

  For all the sex was merg’d in one —

  If to be happy in her nearness,

  Holding her very silk in dearness;

  As if my heart could have no home

  But where she was, or was to come —

  If from the contact of a finger,

  An after-bliss for days could linger,

  A feeling kept secure and chaste

  Till by the next sweet touch effac’d —

  If to pine after pow’r and glory

  But for one sake — if in love-story,

  To make each tenderest phrase refer

  All that is bright and good to her —

  If with all thoughts to haunt her bow’r

  True as the bee is to the flow’r;

  Her image join’d with all day-scheming,

  And nightly worshipped in all dreaming —

  If these be signs that Love delivers,

  I am thy lover, fair Grace Rivers!

  THE STREAMLET

  STILL glides the gentle streamlet on,

  With shifting current new and strange;

  The water that was here is gone,

  But those green shadows do not change.

  Serene, or ruffled by the storm,

  On present waves, as on the past,

  The mirror’d grove retains its form,

  The self-same trees their semblance cast.

  The hue each fleeting globule wears,

  That drop bequeaths it to the next, —

  One picture still the surface bears,

  To illustrate the murmur’d text.

  So, love, however time may flow,

  Fresh hours pursuing those that flee,

  One constant image still shall show

  My tide of life is true to thee!

  TOM TATTERS’ BIRTHDAY ODE

  Come all you jolly dogs, in the Grapes, and King’s Head, and Green Man, and Bell taps,

  And shy up your hats — if you haven’t hats, your paper and woollen caps,

  Shout with me and cry Eureka! by the sweet Parnassian River,

  While Echo, in Warner’s Wood replies, Huzza! the young Squire for ever!

  And Vulcan, Mars, and Hector of Troy, and Jupiter and his wife,

  And Phoebus, from his forked hill, coming down to take a knife,

  And Mercury, and piping Pan, to the tune of ‘Old King Cole,’

  And Venus the Queen of Love, to eat an ox that was roasted whole.

  * * * * *

  Sir Mark, God bless him, loves good old times, when beards wag, and every thing goes merry,

  There’ll be drinking out of gracecups, and a Boar’s head chewing rosemary,

  Maid Marian, and a Morris dance, and acting of quaint Moralities,

  Doctor Bellamy and a Hobby horse, and many other Old Formalities.

  * * * * *

  But there won’t be any Psalm-singing saints, to make us sad of a Monday,

  But Bacchus will preach to us out of a barrel, instead of the methodist Bundy.

  We’ll drink to the King in good strong ale, like souls that are true and loyal,

  And a fig for Mrs. Hanway, camomile, sage and penny-royal;

  And a fig for Master Gregory, that takes tipsy folks into custody,

  He was a wise man to-morrow, and will be a wiser man yesterday.

  * * * * *

  Come fill a bumper up, my boys, and toss off every drop of it! —

  Here’s young Squire Ringwood’s health, and may he live as long as Jason,

  Before Atropos cuts his thread, and Dick Tablet, the bungling mason,

  Chips him a marble tea-table, with a marble’ tea-urn a-top of it?

  Quoth Tom in Tatters.

  HOOD’S OWN: OR, LAUGHTER YEAR TO YEAR (1839)

  BEING FORMER RUNNINGS OF HIS COMIC VEIN, WITH AN INFUSION OF NEW BLOOD FOR GENERAL CIRCULATION

  CONTENTS

  AN ANCIENT CONCERT

  SONNET ON STEAM

  A REPORT FROM BELOW

  ODE TO M. BRUNEL

  OVER THE WAY

  A NOCTURNAL SKETCH

  DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR,TRUTH IN PARENTHESES

  EPIGRAMS COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY LATELY PUBLISHED

  THE LAST WISH

  THE DEVIL’S ALBUM

  THE LOST HEIR

  JOHN DAY

  NUMBER ONE

  THE DROWNING DUCKS

  SALLY SIMPKIN’S LAMENT

  THE FALL

  SONNET: ALONG THE WOODFORD ROAD THERE COMES A NOISE

  THE STEAM SERVICE

  A LAY OF REAL LIFE

  A VALENTINE

  POEM, — FROM THE POLISH

  CONVEYANCING

  SONNET. I HAD A GIG-HORSE

  EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST

  I’M NOT A SINGLE MAN

  THE BURNING OF THE LOVE-LETTER

  THE APPARITION

  LITTLE O’P. — AN AFRICAN FACT

  THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL

  SEA SONG

  STANZAS ON COMING OF AGE

  A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE

  I’M GOING TO BOMBAY

  ODE TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET

  ODE FOR ST. CECILIA’S EVE

  A BLOW-UP

  THE GHOST

  ODE TO MADAME HENGLER

  THE DOUBLE KNOCK

  BAILEY BALLADS

  LINES TO MARY

  NO. II

  NO. III

  FRENCH AND ENGLISH

  OUR VILLAGE. — BY A VILLAGER

  A TRUE STORY

  THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD

  TO FANNY

  POEMS, BY A POOR GENTLEMAN

  STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS

&nb
sp; SONNET WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE

  SONNET. — A SOMNAMBULIST

  FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH

  THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS

  PAIR’D, NOT MATCH’D

  THE DUEL. A SERIOUS BALLAD

  SONNET TO VAUXHALL

  ODE TO MR. MALTHUS

  A GOOD DIRECTION

  THERE’S NO ROMANCE IN THAT

  A WATERLOO BALLAD

  SHOOTING PAINS

  THE BOY AT THE NORE

  LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR

  ODE TO ST. SWITHIN

  THE SCHOOLMASTER’S MOTTO

  THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION

  A STORM AT HASTINGS

  LINES TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA

  SONNET TO A SCOTCH GIRL, WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY FASHION

  SONNET TO A DECAYED SEAMAN

  HUGGINS AND DUGGINS

  DOMESTIC DIDACTICS BY AN OLD SERVANT

  ODE TO PEACE

  A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN

  TO MARY HOUSEMAID

  PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT

  LITERARY AND LITERAL

  LOVE LAYS AND LYRICS

  SONNET TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME BILL

  LITERARY REMINISCENCES

  ODE TO PERRY, THE INVENTOR OF THE PATENT PERRYAN PEN

  THE UNDYING ONE

  COCKLE v. CACKLE

  THE SWEEP’S COMPLAINT

  THE SUB-MARINE

  DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND

  THE KANGAROOS

  ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER

  SONNET. THE SKY IS GLOWING IN ONE RUDDY SHEET

  RONDEAU

  SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION

  THE POACHER

  I CANNOT BEAR A GUN

  TRIMMER’S EXERCISE FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN