University of Virginia Library

HOOD,

WHO SANG THE “SONG OF THE SHIRT.”

'Twas the old story!—ever the blind world
Knows not its Angels of Deliverance
Till they stand glorified 'twixt earth and heaven.
It stones the Martyr; then, with praying hands,
Sees the God mount his chariot of fire,
And calls sweet names, and worships what it spurned.
It slays the Man to deify the Christ:
And then how lovingly 'twill bind the brows
Where late its thorn-crown laughed with cruel lips—
Red, and rejoicing from the killing kiss!
To those who walk beside them, great men seem
Mere common earth; but distance makes them stars.
As dying limbs do lengthen out in death,
So grows the stature of their after-fame;
And then we gather up their glorious words,
And treasure up their names with loving care.
So Hood, our Poet, lived his martyr-life:
With a swift soul that travelled at such speed,
And struck such flashes from its flinty road,
That by its trail of radiance through the dark,
We almost see th' unfeatured Future's face,—
And went uncrowned to his untimely tomb.
'Tis true, the World did praise his glorious Wit—
The merry Jester with his cap and bells!
And sooth, his wit was like Ithuriel's spear:
But 'twas mere lightning from the cloud of his life,
Which held at heart most rich and blessed rain
Of tears melodious, that are worlds of love;
And Rainbows, that would bridge from earth to heaven;
And Light, that should have shone like Joshua's sun
Above our long death-grapple with the Wrong;
And thunder-voices, with their Words of fire,
To melt the Slave's chain, and the Tyrant's crown.
His wit?—a kind smile just to hearten us!—
Rich foam-wreaths on the waves of lavish life,
That flashed o'er precious pearls and golden sands.
But, there was that beneath surpassing wit!
The starry soul, that shines when all is dark!—
Endurance, that can suffer and grow strong—
Walk through the world with bleeding feet, and smile!—
Love's inner light, that kindle's Life's rare colours,
Bright wine of Beauty for the longing soul;
And thoughts that swathe Humanity with such glory
As limns the outline of the coming God.
In him were gleams of such heroic splendour
As light this cold, dark world up like a star
Arrayed in glory for the eyes of heaven:
And a great heart that beat according music
With theirs of old,—God-likest kings of men!
A conquering heart! which Circumstance, that frights
The Many down from Love's transfiguring height,
Aye mettled into martial attitude.
He might have clutched the palm of Victory
In the world's wrestling-ring of noble deeds;
But he went down a precious Argosy
At sea, just glimmering into sight of shore,
With its rare freightage from diviner climes.
While friends were crowding at the Harbour mouth
To meet and welcome the brave Sailor back,
He saw, and sank in sight of them and home!
The world may never know the wealth it lost,
When Hood went darkling to his tearful tomb,
So mighty in his undeveloped force!
With all his crowding unaccomplished hopes—
Th' unuttered wealth and glory of his soul—
And all the music ringing round his life,
And poems stirring in his dying brain.
But blessings on him for the songs he sang—
Which yearned about the world till then for birth!
How like a bonny bird of God he came,
And poured his heart in music for the Poor;
Who sit in gloom while sunshine floods the land,
And grope through darkness, for the hand of Help.
And trampled Manhood heard, and claimed its crown;
And trampled Womanhood sprang up ennobled!
The human soul looked radiantly through rags!
And there was melting of cold hearts, as when
The ripening sunlight fingers frozen flowers.
O! blessings on him for the songs he sang!
When all the stars of happy thought had set
In many a mind, his spirit walked the gloom
Clothed on with beauty, as the regal Moon
Walks her night-kingdom, turning clouds to light.
Our Champion! with his heart too big to beat
In bonds,—our Poet in his pride of power!
Aye, we'll remember him who fought our fight,
And chose the Martyr's robe of flame, and spurned
The gold and purple of the glistering slave.
His Mausoleum is the People's heart,
There he lies crowned and glorified,—in state,
Smiling, with singing robe wrapped richly round.
But 'tis not meet, my England, his dear dust
Should lie where splendid flatteries flaunt on tombs,
With not a line of lettered love to tell
What mighty heart lies quenched and broken there.
So let us build our Poet's monument!
With passionate hearts of love for corner-stones,
And tears that temper for immortal fame.
And it were well, my England, shouldst thou come
To weep some honest drops above his grave.
Our Hood is worthy of eternal praise
And blessings, and dear heart-amenities,
As warrior Wellington, who rode to fame
On Death's white horse, by Battle's crimson path.