Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hood Page 6
Great was thy Evening Cluster! — often grac’d
With Dollond — Burgess — and Sir Humphry Davy!
’Twas there M’Dermot first inclin’d to Taste, —
There Colborn learn’d the art of making paste
For puffs — and Accum analyzed a gravy.
Colman — the Cutter of Coleman Street, ’tis said
Came there, — and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head,
(His claim to letters) — Kater, too, the Moon’s
Crony, — and Graham, lofty on balloons, —
There Croly stalk’d with holy humor heated,
Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed —
And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ,
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, —
Madame Valbrèque thrice honor’d thee, and came
With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle, —
The Dibdins, — Tom, Charles, Frognall, — came with tuns
Of poor old books, old puns!
And even Irving spar’d a night from fame, —
And talk’d — till thou didst stop him in the middle,
To serve round Tewah-diddle!
VIII.
Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye!
So let them: — thou thyself art still a Host!
Dibdin — Cornaro — Newton — Mrs. Fry!
Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec! — Lovelass — and Weber,
Matthews in Quot’em — Moore’s fire-worshipping Gheber —
Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engross’d!
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast,
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling, —
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion!
Thou art, sans question,
The Corporation’s love its Doctor Darling!
Look at the Civic Palate — nay, the Bed
Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying
Illustrations of Lying!
Ninety square feet of down from heel to head
It measured, and I dread
Was haunted by a terrible night Mare,
A monstrous burthen on the corporation! —
Look at the Bill of Fare for one day’s share,
Sea-turtles by the score — Oxen by droves,
Geese, turkeys, by the flock — fishes and loaves
Countless, as when the Lilliputian nation
Was making up the huge man-mountain’s ration!
IX.
Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting Demon from great Garratt’s breast —
(His honor seems to rest! — )
And what is thy reward? — Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service?
Alas! not even
The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis! —
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak
Before the worshipful the Common Council
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,)
Thou should’st not miss thy Freedom, for a week,
Richly engross’d on vellum: — Reason urges
That he who rules our cookery — that he
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess!
ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ.
SECRETARY TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION OF MENDICITY.
HAIL, King of Shreds and Patches, hail,
Disperser of the Poor!
Thou Dog in office, set to bark
All beggars from the door!
Great overseer of overseers,
And Dealer in old rags!
Thy public duty never fails,
Thy ardour never flags!
“Oh, when I take my walks abroad,
How many Poor” — I miss!
Had Doctor Watts walk’d now-a-days
He would have written this!
So well thy Vagrant-catchers prowl,
So clear thy caution keeps
The path — O, Bodkin, sure thou hast
The eye that never sleeps!
No Belisarius pleads for alms,
No Benbow, lacking legs;
The pious man in black is now
The only man that begs!
Street-Handels are disorganised,
Disbanded every band! —
The silent scraper at the door
Is scarce allow’d to stand!
The Sweeper brushes with his broom,
The Carstairs with his chalk
Retires, — the Cripple leaves his stand,
But cannot sell his walk.
The old Wall-blind resigns the wall,
The Camels hide their humps,
The Witherington without a leg
Mayn’t beg upon his stumps!
Poor Jack is gone, that used to doff
His batter’d tatter’d hat,
And show his dangling sleeve, alas!
There seem’d no ‘arm in that!
Oh! was it such a sin to air
His true blue naval rags,
Gloy’s own trophy, like St. Paul,
Hung round with holy flags!
Thou knowest best. I meditate,
My Bodkin, no offence!
Let us, henceforth, but nurse our pounds,
Thou dost protect our pence!
Well art thou pointed ‘gainst the Poor,
For, when the Beggar Crew
Bring their petitions, thou art paid,
Of course, to “run them through.”
Of course thou art, what Hamlet meant
To wretches the last friend;
What ills can mortals have, they can’t
With a bare Bodkin end?
ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE.
It was Maria! —
And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid — She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round St. Peter’s once — and return’d back.’ — See the whole story in Sterne and the newspapers.
1
THOU art come back again to the stage,
Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it;
And ’tis well for this fortunate age
That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it!
It is pleasant to see thee again —
Right pleasant to see thee, by Herclé,
Unmolested by pea-colour’d Hayne!
And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley!
2
Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light
(Not my Foote — I speak by correction)
As the snow on some mountain at night,
Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone.
The Pit is in raptures to free thee,
The Boxes impatient to greet thee,
The Galleries quite clam’rous to see thee,
And thy scenic relations to meet thee!
3
Ah, where was thy sacred retreat?
Maria! ah, where hast thou been,
With thy two little wandering Feet,
Far away from all peace and pea-green!
Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold,
Far away from himself and his lot!
I envy the place thou hast stroll’d,
If a stroller thou art — which thou’rt not!
4
Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing,
Methinks, at the close of the day —
When thy Billy had just slipp’d his string,
And thy little dog quite gone astray —
He bade thee to sorrow no more —
He wish’d thee to lull thy distress
In his bosom — he couldn’t do more,
And a Christian could hardly do less!
5
Ah, me! for thy small plaintive pipe,
I fear we must look at thine eye —
I would it were my task to w
ipe
That hazel orb thoroughly dry!
Oh sure ’tis a barbarous deed
To give pain to the feminine mind —
But the wooer that left thee to bleed
Was a creature more killing than kind!
6
The man that could tread on a worm
Were a brute — and inhuman to boot;
But he merits a much harsher term
That can wantonly tread on a Foote!
Soft mercy and gentleness blend
To make up a Quaker — but he
That spurn’d thee could scarce be a Friend
Though he dealt in that Thou-ing of ‘thee.’
7
They that lov’d thee, Maria, have flown!
The friends of the midsummer hour!
But those friends now in anguish atone,
And mourn o’er thy desolate bow’r.
Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out,
Yea, utterly out of his bias;
And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt,
Is counting his Ave Marias!
8
Ah, where wert thou driven away,
To feast on thy desolate woe?
We have witness’d thy weeping in play,
But none saw the earnest tears flow —
Perchance thou wert truly forlorn, —
Tho’ none but the fairies could mark
Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn,
Or the thistles in Burderop Park!
9
Ah, perhaps, when old age’s white snow
Has silver’d the crown of Hayne’s nob —
For even the greenest will grow
As hoary as ‘White-headed Bob’ —
He’ll wish, in the days of his prime,
He had been rather kinder to one
He hath left to the malice of Time —
A woman — so weak and undone!
[In the first edition these two lines ran:
That eye — forc’d so often to wipe
That the handkerchief never got dry.]
WHIMS AND ODDITIES. FIRST SERIES (1826)
CONTENTS
DEDICATION TO THE REVIEWERS.
MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL’S.
A VALENTINE.
LOVE.
A RECIPE FOR CIVILIZATION.
THE LAST MAN.
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.
BACKING THE FAVOURITE.
THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.
AS IT FELL UPON A DAY
A FAIRY TALE.
THE FALL OF THE DEER.
DECEMBER AND MAY.
A WINTER NOSEGAY.
EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP.
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
THE STAG-EYED LADY.
THE WATER PERI’S SONG.
REMONSTRATORY ODE, FROM THE ELEPHANT AT EXETER CHANGE, TO MR. MATHEWS AT THE ENGLISH OPERA-HOUSE.
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
THE SEA SPELL.
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.
‘O Cicero! Cicero! if to pun lie a crime, ’tis a crime I have learned of thee:
O Bias! Bias! it to pun be a crime, by thy example I was biassed.’ — Scriblerus.
DEDICATION TO THE REVIEWERS.
What is a modern Poet’s fate ?
To write his thoughts upon a slate;
The Critic spits on what is done,
Gives it a wipeand all is gone.
MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL’S.
THE man that pays his pence, and goes
Up to thy lofty cross, St. Paul,
Looks over London’s naked nose,
Women and men:
The world is all beneath his ken.
He sits above the Ball.
He seems on Mount Olympus’ top,
Among the Gods, by Jupiter! and lets drop
His eyes from the empyreal clouds
On mortal crowds.
Seen from these skies,
How small those emmets in our eyes;
Some carry little sticks — and one
His eggs — to warm them in the sun:
Dear! what a hustle,
And bustle!
And there’s my aunt. I know her by her waist,
So long and thin,
And so pinch’d in,
Just in the pismire taste.
Oh! what are men? — Beings so small,
That, should I fall
Upon their little heads, I must
Crush them by hundreds into dust!
And what is life? and all its ages —
There’s seven stages!
Turnham Green! Chelsea! Putney! Fulham!
Brentford! and Kew!
And Tooting, too!
And oh! what very little nags to pull ‘em.
Yet each would seem a horse indeed,
If here at Paul’s tip-top we’d got ‘em;
Although, like Cinderella’s breed,
They’re mice at bottom.
Then let me not despise a horse,
Though he looks small from Paul’s high cross!
Since he would be, — as near the sky.
— Fourteen hands high.
What is this world with London in its lap?
Mogg’s Map.
The Thames, that ebbs and flows in its broad channel?
A tidy kennel.
The bridges stretching from its banks?
Stone planks.
Oh me! hence could I read an admonition
To mad Ambition!
But that he would not listen to my call,
Though I should stand upon the cross, and ball!
A VALENTINE.
OH! cruel heart! ere these posthumous papers
Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath;
Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers
Have only lighted me the way to death.
Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapours.
When I am gone, and green grass covereth
Thy lover, lost; but it will be in vain —
It will not bring the vital spark again.
Ah! when those eyes, like tapers, burn’d so blue,
It seemed an omen that we must expect
The sprites of lovers; and it boded true,
For I am half a sprite — a ghost elect;
Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu.
With my last pen-before that I effect
My exit from the stage; just stopp’d before
The tombstone steps that lead us to death’s door.
Full soon those living eyes, now liquid bright,
Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save
They shed a dreary and inhuman light,
Illum’d within by glow-worms of the grave:
These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight.
These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have,
Will keep Death’s carnival, and, foul or fresh.
Must bid farewell, a long farewell, to flesh!
Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee,
As broken victuals to the worms will go:
And all the world will dine again but me —
For I shall have no stomach; — and I know,
When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be
As now thou art: but will not tears of woe
Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct,
When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct?
And when thy soul is buried in a sleep,
In midnight solitude, and little dreaming
Of such a spectre — what, if I should creep
Within thy presence in such dismal seeming?
Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep,
And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming.
And pray With mingled penitence and dread
That I were less alive — or not so dead.
Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove
And the sad epitaph of so much love
Will eat into my heart, as if in stone:
And all the lovers that around thee move,
Will read my fate, and tremble for their own;
And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh,
“Man, born of woman, must of woman die!”
Mine eyes grow dropsical — I can no more —
And what is written thou may’st scorn to read,
Shutting thy tearless eyes.— ’Tis done— ’tis o’er
My hand is destin’d for another deed.
But one last word wrung from its aching core,
And my lone heart in silentness will bleed;
Alas! it ought to take a life to tell
That one last word — that fare — fare — fare thee well.
LOVE.
O LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,
Trumping earth’s kings and queens, and all its suits;
A player, masquerading many parts
In life’s odd carnival; — a boy that shoots,
From ladies’ eyes, such mortal woundy darts;
A gardener, pulling heart’s-ease up by the roots;
The Puck of Passion — partly false — part real —
A marriageable maiden’s “beau ideal.”
O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,
Making green misses spoil their work at school;
A melancholy man, cross-gartering?
Grave ripe-fac’d wisdom made an April fool?
A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring?
A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?
A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,
Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?
O Love? what art thou, Love? one that is bad
With palpitations of the heart — like mine —
A poor bewilder’d maid, making so sad