The works of Thomas Hood Comic and serious: In prose and verse. Edited, with notes, by his son |
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 | VII. | VOLUME VII. |
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 | The works of Thomas Hood |  |
VII. VOLUME VII.
10
1844.
[Continued.]
[Passing my brow, and passing my eyes]
Passing my brow, and passing my eyes,
And passing lower with devious range,
Passing my chest,
And passing the rest,
I feel a something passing strange!
And passing lower with devious range,
Passing my chest,
And passing the rest,
I feel a something passing strange!
Over my soul there seems to pass
A middle state of life or death,
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath!
And, methinks I hear the passing-bell;
But, Mr. Passmore, that reverend elf,
Gives me a pass that I know well,
A sort of passport to Heaven itself!
A middle state of life or death,
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath!
And, methinks I hear the passing-bell;
But, Mr. Passmore, that reverend elf,
Gives me a pass that I know well,
A sort of passport to Heaven itself!
Passing my brow, and passing my eye,
And passing lower, with devious range,
Passing my chest,
And passing the rest,
I feel a something passing strange!
And passing lower, with devious range,
Passing my chest,
And passing the rest,
I feel a something passing strange!
Oh, Mr. Eyre, Lieutenant dear!
Oh! Lady Sale, thou gallant lass!
I know for certain that ye are near,
For I feel, I feel, the Khyber Pass!
But no—'tis Brockedon passes my brow,
And I'm in the Alpine Passes now,
With icy valleys, and snowy crests,
Whereon the passing vapour rests;
And guide and English traveller pass,
Each on a very passable ass!
Oh! Lady Sale, thou gallant lass!
11
For I feel, I feel, the Khyber Pass!
But no—'tis Brockedon passes my brow,
And I'm in the Alpine Passes now,
With icy valleys, and snowy crests,
Whereon the passing vapour rests;
And guide and English traveller pass,
Each on a very passable ass!
Passing my ear and passing my eye!
O joy! what pastoral meads I spy,
Full of lambs that frisk and feed
While the Pastor plays on his rustic reed—
To the very best of his humble ability,
Piping ever shrill and loud,
But oh! what new magnetic cloud
Passes over my passability!
O joy! what pastoral meads I spy,
Full of lambs that frisk and feed
While the Pastor plays on his rustic reed—
To the very best of his humble ability,
Piping ever shrill and loud,
But oh! what new magnetic cloud
Passes over my passability!
Over my soul there seems to pass
A middle state of life or death
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath.
No more prospects bright and sunny,
No more chance of pleasant cheer,
No more hope of passing money—
I feel the pass of the Overseer!
A middle state of life or death
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath.
No more prospects bright and sunny,
No more chance of pleasant cheer,
No more hope of passing money—
I feel the pass of the Overseer!
13
THE KEY.
A MOORISH ROMANCE
“On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the keys
of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express
the hopes of one day returning, and again planting the crescent on the
ancient walls of the Alhambra.”
—Scott's Travels in Morocco and Algiers.
“Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?”
Sancho Panza.
The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapour
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapour
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!
14
One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock—
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell'd hilt—
Oh! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has spilt!
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock—
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell'd hilt—
Oh! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has spilt!
His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal;
His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout
Of Victory or Death!
In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal;
His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout
Of Victory or Death!
For why? the last Zebeck that came
And moor'd within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul—
The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thunder cloud
The sunny land of Spain!
And moor'd within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul—
The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thunder cloud
The sunny land of Spain!
No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honour's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;
But Christians shedding Christian blood
Beneath the olive's branch!
For honour's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;
15
Beneath the olive's branch!
A war of horrid parricide,
And brother killing brother;
Yea, like to “dogs and sons of dogs
That worry one another.
But let them bite and tear and fight,
The more the Kaffers slay,
The sooner Hagar's swarming sons
Shall make the land a prey!
And brother killing brother;
Yea, like to “dogs and sons of dogs
That worry one another.
But let them bite and tear and fight,
The more the Kaffers slay,
The sooner Hagar's swarming sons
Shall make the land a prey!
The sooner shall the Moor behold
Th' Alhambra's pile again;
And those who pined in Barbary
Shall shout for joy in Spain—
The sooner shall the Crescent wave
On dear Granada's walls:
And proud Mohammed Ali sit
Within his father's halls!
Th' Alhambra's pile again;
And those who pined in Barbary
Shall shout for joy in Spain—
The sooner shall the Crescent wave
On dear Granada's walls:
And proud Mohammed Ali sit
Within his father's halls!
“Alla-il-alla!” tiger-like
Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,
Steps o'er the marble floor;
Across the hall, till from the wall,
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down
An old and massive Key!
Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,
Steps o'er the marble floor;
Across the hall, till from the wall,
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down
An old and massive Key!
A massive Key of curious shape,
And dark with dirt and rust,
And well three weary centuries
The metal might encrust!
For since the King Boabdil fell
Before the native stock,
That ancient Key, so quaint to see,
Hath never been in lock.
And dark with dirt and rust,
16
The metal might encrust!
For since the King Boabdil fell
Before the native stock,
That ancient Key, so quaint to see,
Hath never been in lock.
Brought over by the Saracens
Who fled across the main,
A token of the secret hope
Of going back again;
From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house it pass'd;
O will it ever, ever ope
The Palace gate at last?
Who fled across the main,
A token of the secret hope
Of going back again;
From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house it pass'd;
O will it ever, ever ope
The Palace gate at last?
Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung—
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet's will accords:
The time is come to scour the rust,
And lubricate the wards.
On post and wall it hung—
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet's will accords:
The time is come to scour the rust,
And lubricate the wards.
For should the Moor with sword and lance
At Algesiras land,
Where is the bold Bernardo now
Their progress to withstand?
To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid
Five royal crowns to topple down
As gallant Diaz did?
At Algesiras land,
Where is the bold Bernardo now
Their progress to withstand?
To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid
Five royal crowns to topple down
As gallant Diaz did?
17
Hath Xeres any Pounder now,
When other weapons fail,
With club to thrash invaders rash,
Like barley with a flail?
Hath Seville any Perez still,
To lay his clusters low,
And ride with seven turbans green
Around his saddle-bow?
When other weapons fail,
With club to thrash invaders rash,
Like barley with a flail?
Hath Seville any Perez still,
To lay his clusters low,
And ride with seven turbans green
Around his saddle-bow?
No! never more shall Europe see
Such Heroes brave and bold,
Such Valour, Faith, and Loyalty,
As used to shine of old!
No longer to one battle cry
United Spaniards run,
And with their thronging spears uphold
The Virgin and her Son!
Such Heroes brave and bold,
Such Valour, Faith, and Loyalty,
As used to shine of old!
No longer to one battle cry
United Spaniards run,
And with their thronging spears uphold
The Virgin and her Son!
From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay
Internal discord dwells,
And Barcelona bears the scars
Of Spanish shot and shells.
The fleets decline, the merchants pine
For want of foreign trade;
And gold is scant; and Alicante
Is seal'd by strict blockade!
Internal discord dwells,
And Barcelona bears the scars
Of Spanish shot and shells.
The fleets decline, the merchants pine
For want of foreign trade;
And gold is scant; and Alicante
Is seal'd by strict blockade!
The loyal fly, and Valour falls,
Opposed by court intrigue;
But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;
While factions seeking private ends
By turns usurping reign—
Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor
Exulting point to Spain!
Opposed by court intrigue;
But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;
While factions seeking private ends
By turns usurping reign—
18
Exulting point to Spain!
Well may he cleanse the rusty Key
With Afric sand and oil,
And hope an Andalusian home
Shall recompense the toil!
Well may he swear the Moorish spear
Through wild Castile shall sweep,
And where the Catalonian sowed
The Saracen shall reap!
With Afric sand and oil,
And hope an Andalusian home
Shall recompense the toil!
Well may he swear the Moorish spear
Through wild Castile shall sweep,
And where the Catalonian sowed
The Saracen shall reap!
Well may he vow to spurn the Cross
Beneath the Arab hoof,
And plant the Crescent yet again
Above th' Alhambra's roof—
When those from whom St. Jago's name
In chorus once arose,
Are shouting Faction's battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to “Close!”
Beneath the Arab hoof,
And plant the Crescent yet again
Above th' Alhambra's roof—
When those from whom St. Jago's name
In chorus once arose,
Are shouting Faction's battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to “Close!”
Well may he swear his ataghan
Shall rout the traitor swarm,
And carve them into Arabesques
That show no human form—
The blame be theirs whose bloody feuds
Invite the savage Moor,
And tempt him with the ancient Key
To seek the ancient door!
Shall rout the traitor swarm,
And carve them into Arabesques
That show no human form—
The blame be theirs whose bloody feuds
Invite the savage Moor,
And tempt him with the ancient Key
To seek the ancient door!
39
THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK.
AN ALLEGORY.
There's a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street—
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of numerous feet—
While round the Workhouse door
The Labouring Classes flock,
For why? the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.
And noise in every street—
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of numerous feet—
While round the Workhouse door
The Labouring Classes flock,
For why? the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.
Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, crippled, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court, and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main?
Of thousands speeding along
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, crippled, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court, and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main?
Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,
In lane, and court and alley,
From homes in poverty's lowest valley,
Furnished with shuttle and loom—
Poor slaves of Civilization's galley—
And in the road and footways rally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,
Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil;
Dingy with smoke and dust and oil,
And smirch'd besides with vicious soil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.
Father, mother, and careful child,
Looking as if it had never smiled—
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the ghosts of garments on—
The Weaver, her sallow neighbour,
The grim and sooty Artisan;
Every soul—child, woman, or man,
Who lives—or dies—by labour.
From mill, and garret, and room,
40
From homes in poverty's lowest valley,
Furnished with shuttle and loom—
Poor slaves of Civilization's galley—
And in the road and footways rally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,
Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil;
Dingy with smoke and dust and oil,
And smirch'd besides with vicious soil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.
Father, mother, and careful child,
Looking as if it had never smiled—
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the ghosts of garments on—
The Weaver, her sallow neighbour,
The grim and sooty Artisan;
Every soul—child, woman, or man,
Who lives—or dies—by labour.
Stirr'd by an overwhelming zeal,
And social impulse, a terrible throng!
Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel,
Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel,
Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel—
Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal—
Gushing, rushing, crushing along,
A very torrent of Man!
Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong,
Grown at last to a hurricane strong,
Stop its course who can!
Stop who can its onward course
And irresistible moral force;
O! vain and idle dream!
For surely as men are all akin,
Whether of fair or sable skin,
According to Nature's scheme,
That Human Movement contains within
A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.
And social impulse, a terrible throng!
Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel,
Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel,
Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel—
Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal—
Gushing, rushing, crushing along,
A very torrent of Man!
Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong,
Grown at last to a hurricane strong,
Stop its course who can!
Stop who can its onward course
And irresistible moral force;
41
For surely as men are all akin,
Whether of fair or sable skin,
According to Nature's scheme,
That Human Movement contains within
A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.
Onward, onward, with hasty feet,
They swarm—and westward still—
Masses born to drink and eat,
But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat,
And famishing down Cornhill!
Through the Poultry—but still unfed—
Christian Charity, hang your head!
Hungry—passing the Street of Bread;
Thirsty—the street of Milk;
Ragged—beside the Ludgate Mart,
So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art,
With cotton, and wool, and silk!
They swarm—and westward still—
Masses born to drink and eat,
But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat,
And famishing down Cornhill!
Through the Poultry—but still unfed—
Christian Charity, hang your head!
Hungry—passing the Street of Bread;
Thirsty—the street of Milk;
Ragged—beside the Ludgate Mart,
So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art,
With cotton, and wool, and silk!
At last, before that door
That bears so many a knock
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,
Like sheep they huddle and flock—
And would that all the Good and Wise
Could see the Million of hollow eyes,
With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies,
Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!
That bears so many a knock
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,
Like sheep they huddle and flock—
And would that all the Good and Wise
Could see the Million of hollow eyes,
With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies,
Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!
Oh! that the Parish Powers,
Who regulate Labour's hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial
Would turn from the artificial dial
That striketh ten or eleven,
And go, for once, by that older one
That stands in the light of Nature's sun,
And takes its time from Heaven!
Who regulate Labour's hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial
Would turn from the artificial dial
42
And go, for once, by that older one
That stands in the light of Nature's sun,
And takes its time from Heaven!
45
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
“Drown'd! drown'd!”
—Hamlet.
I. [PART I.]
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.—
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.—
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
46
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
One of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
47
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd—
Any where, any where
Out of the world!
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd—
Any where, any where
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it.
Then, if you can!
No matter how coldly
48
Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it.
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,—kindly,—
Smoothe, and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,—kindly,—
Smoothe, and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.—
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.—
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
49
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
II. PART II.
[Fragmentary verses from the MSS. connected with The Bridge of Sighs.]
Weary with troubles
That Death must deliver
Once more life bubbles
Away in the river—
[OMITTED]
That Death must deliver
Once more life bubbles
Away in the river—
The moon in the river shone
And the stars some six or seven—
Poor child of sin, to throw it therein
Seemed sending it to Heaven.
[OMITTED]
And the stars some six or seven—
Poor child of sin, to throw it therein
Seemed sending it to Heaven.
Cover her, cover her,
Throw the earth over her—
Victim of murder inhumanly done;
With gravel and sod—
Hide—hide her from God,
And the light of the sun!
Throw the earth over her—
Victim of murder inhumanly done;
With gravel and sod—
Hide—hide her from God,
And the light of the sun!
72
THE LAY OF THE LABOURER.
[Verse extracted from the prose narrative.]
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labour's rugged school.
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labour's rugged school.
To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
73
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.
To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long wintry days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard's blaze!
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long wintry days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard's blaze!
To Him who sends a drought
To parch the fields forlorn,
The rain to flood the meadows with mud,
The blight to blast the corn,
To Him I leave to guide
The bolt in its crooked path,
To strike the miser's rick, and show
The skies blood-red with wrath.
To parch the fields forlorn,
The rain to flood the meadows with mud,
The blight to blast the corn,
To Him I leave to guide
The bolt in its crooked path,
To strike the miser's rick, and show
The skies blood-red with wrath.
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market-team to drive,
Or mend the fence by the cover side,
And leave the game alive.
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market-team to drive,
Or mend the fence by the cover side,
And leave the game alive.
74
Ay, only give me work,
And then you need not fear
That I shall snare his Worship's hare,
Or kill his Grace's deer;
Break into his lordship's house,
To steal the plate so rich;
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
To welter in a ditch.
And then you need not fear
That I shall snare his Worship's hare,
Or kill his Grace's deer;
Break into his lordship's house,
To steal the plate so rich;
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
To welter in a ditch.
Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labour calls,
No job I'll shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls;
Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.
Wherever Labour calls,
No job I'll shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls;
Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.
My only claim is this,
With labour stiff and stark,
By lawful turn, my living to earn,
Between the light and dark;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer—
But all from the hand that holds the land.
And none from the overseer!
With labour stiff and stark,
By lawful turn, my living to earn,
Between the light and dark;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer—
But all from the hand that holds the land.
And none from the overseer!
No parish money, or loaf,
No pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
No alms I ask, give me my task:
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work, and not to beg.
No pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
75
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work, and not to beg.
Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though doom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean
Instead of the fat of the earth;
To make such humble meals
As honest labour can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man!
Though doom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean
Instead of the fat of the earth;
To make such humble meals
As honest labour can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man!
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
Whatever the tool to ply,
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will—
Whatever the tool to ply,
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge!
Who every weekly score
Docks labour's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the temple door,
But robb'd them over night.
The very shilling he hoped to save,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the New Bastille,
The Spital, or the Gaol!
Docks labour's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the temple door,
But robb'd them over night.
The very shilling he hoped to save,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the New Bastille,
The Spital, or the Gaol!
88
EPIGRAM. ON HER MAJESTY'S VISIT TO THE CITY, 1844.
We've heard of comets, blazing things,With “fear of change” perplexing Kings;
But, lo! a novel sight and strange,
A Queen who does not fear a 'Change!
ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO THE CITY.
BY A TRADESMAN IN CORNHILL.
Sure the measure is strangeThat all Commerce so stops,
And, to open a 'Change,
Make us shut up our shops.
89
SONNET TO A SONNET.
[_]
Particularly commended, with the Fifth of Sir Philip Sidney's, and the pages of Froissart, to the perusal of certain Journalists across the Channel; and generally to their Young countrymen, who would do well to affect, with the beards and moustaches of the olden time, the gallant courtesy of the ancient manners.
Most chivalrous amongst chivalric men,
Distinguish'd for a polish'd lance and pen
In tuneful contest, and the tourney-fight;
Lustrous in scholarship, in honour bright,
Accomplish'd in all graces current then,
Humane as any in historic ken,
Brave, handsome, noble, affable, polite,
Most courteous to that race become of late
So fiercely scornful of all kind advance,
Rude, bitter, coarse, implacable in hate
To Albion, plotting ever her mischance,—
Alas! fair Verse, how false and out of date
Thy phrase “sweet enemy” applied to France!
EPIGRAM. ON A PICTURE (407) IN THE BRITISH INSTITUTION, 1843.
Sir, let me just your tasteful eye enveigleTo yonder Painting, of the Madman Eagle.
Which, that by Poole? Excuse me, sir, I beg,
I really have no wish to catch “The Plague.”
114
THE SAUSAGE MAKER'S GHOST.
A LONDON LEGEND.
Somewhere in Leather Lane—
I wonder that it was not Mincing,
And for this reason most convincing,
That Mr. Brain
Dealt in those well-minced cartridges of meat
Some people like to eat—
However, all such quibbles overstepping,
In Leather Lane he lived; and drove a trade
In porcine sausages, though London made,
Call'd “Epping.”
I wonder that it was not Mincing,
And for this reason most convincing,
That Mr. Brain
Dealt in those well-minced cartridges of meat
Some people like to eat—
However, all such quibbles overstepping,
In Leather Lane he lived; and drove a trade
In porcine sausages, though London made,
Call'd “Epping.”
Right brisk was the demand,
Seldom his goods stay'd long on hand,
For out of all adjacent courts and lanes,
Young Irish ladies and their swains—
Such soups of girls and broths of boys!—
Sought his delicious chains,
Preferr'd to all polonies, saveloys,
And other foreign toys—
The mere chance passengers
Who saw his “sassengers,”
Of sweetness undeniable,
So sleek, so mottled, and so “friable,”
Stepp'd in, forgetting ev'ry other thought,
And bought.
Seldom his goods stay'd long on hand,
For out of all adjacent courts and lanes,
Young Irish ladies and their swains—
Such soups of girls and broths of boys!—
Sought his delicious chains,
Preferr'd to all polonies, saveloys,
And other foreign toys—
The mere chance passengers
Who saw his “sassengers,”
Of sweetness undeniable,
So sleek, so mottled, and so “friable,”
Stepp'd in, forgetting ev'ry other thought,
And bought.
115
Meanwhile a constant thumping
Was heard, a sort of subterranean chumping—
Incessant was the noise!
But though he had a foreman and assistant,
With all the tools consistent,
(Besides a wife and two fine chopping boys)
His means were not yet vast enough
For chopping fast enough
To meet the call from streets, and lanes, and passages,
For first-chop “sassages.”
Was heard, a sort of subterranean chumping—
Incessant was the noise!
But though he had a foreman and assistant,
With all the tools consistent,
(Besides a wife and two fine chopping boys)
His means were not yet vast enough
For chopping fast enough
To meet the call from streets, and lanes, and passages,
For first-chop “sassages.”
However, Mr. Brain
Was none of those dull men and slow,
Who, flying bird-like by a railway train,
Sigh for the heavy mails of long ago;
He did not set his face 'gainst innovations
For rapid operations,
And therefore in a kind of waking dream
Listen'd to some hot-water sprite that hinted
To have his meat chopp'd, as the Times was printed,
By steam!
Was none of those dull men and slow,
Who, flying bird-like by a railway train,
Sigh for the heavy mails of long ago;
He did not set his face 'gainst innovations
For rapid operations,
And therefore in a kind of waking dream
Listen'd to some hot-water sprite that hinted
To have his meat chopp'd, as the Times was printed,
By steam!
Accordingly in happy hour,
A bran-new Engine went to work
Chopping up pounds on pounds of pork
With all the energy of Two-Horse-Power,
And wonderful celerity—
When lo! when ev'rything to hope responded,
Whether his head was turn'd by his prosperity,
Whether he had some sly intrigue, in verity,
The man absconded!
A bran-new Engine went to work
Chopping up pounds on pounds of pork
With all the energy of Two-Horse-Power,
And wonderful celerity—
When lo! when ev'rything to hope responded,
Whether his head was turn'd by his prosperity,
Whether he had some sly intrigue, in verity,
The man absconded!
116
His anxious Wife in vain
Placarded Leather Lane,
And all the suburbs with descriptive bills,
Such as are issued when from homes and tills
Clerks, dogs, cats, lunatics, and children roam;
Besides advertisements in all the journals,
Or weeklies or diurnals,
Beginning “Left his Home”—
The sausage-maker, spite of white and black,
Never came back.
Placarded Leather Lane,
And all the suburbs with descriptive bills,
Such as are issued when from homes and tills
Clerks, dogs, cats, lunatics, and children roam;
Besides advertisements in all the journals,
Or weeklies or diurnals,
Beginning “Left his Home”—
The sausage-maker, spite of white and black,
Never came back.
Never, alive!—But on the seventh night,
Just when the yawning grave its dead releases,
Filling his bedded wife with sore affright
In walk'd his grisly Sprite,
In fifty thousand pieces!
“O Mary!” so it seem'd
In hollow melancholy tone to say,
Whilst thro' its airy shape the moonlight gleam'd
With scarcely dimmer ray,—
“O Mary! let your hopes no longer flatter,
Prepare at once to drink of sorrow's cup—
It ain't no use to mince the matter—
The Engine's chopp'd me up!”
Just when the yawning grave its dead releases,
Filling his bedded wife with sore affright
In walk'd his grisly Sprite,
In fifty thousand pieces!
“O Mary!” so it seem'd
In hollow melancholy tone to say,
Whilst thro' its airy shape the moonlight gleam'd
With scarcely dimmer ray,—
“O Mary! let your hopes no longer flatter,
Prepare at once to drink of sorrow's cup—
It ain't no use to mince the matter—
The Engine's chopp'd me up!”
118
A DREAM.
'Twas night—the Globe was folded up,
(The paper, not the earth,)
And to its proper shelf restored
The fairest “Maid of Perth:”
But still with strange intricacy
The things that I had read—
The Irish News, the Scottish Tale—
Kept running in my head;
While over all a sort of mist
Began to slowly creep,
The twilight haze of Thought, before
It darkens into Sleep;
A foggy land where shady shapes
Kept stirring in the gloom,
Till with a hint of brighter tint
One spot began to bloom,
And on the blank, by dreamy prank,
saw a Figure tall,
As vivid as from painted glass,
Projected on a wall!
(The paper, not the earth,)
And to its proper shelf restored
The fairest “Maid of Perth:”
But still with strange intricacy
The things that I had read—
The Irish News, the Scottish Tale—
Kept running in my head;
While over all a sort of mist
Began to slowly creep,
The twilight haze of Thought, before
It darkens into Sleep;
A foggy land where shady shapes
Kept stirring in the gloom,
Till with a hint of brighter tint
One spot began to bloom,
And on the blank, by dreamy prank,
saw a Figure tall,
As vivid as from painted glass,
Projected on a wall!
The face as well as I could trace,
Two sparkling eyes were there,
Black as the beard, and trim moustache,
And curling head of hair;
The nose was straight, the mouth was large,
The lips disclosed beneath
A set, full white and regular,
Of strong and handsome teeth—
The whiter, that his brow and cheek,
And thick uncovered gorge,
Were ruddy as if baked by heat
Of sun or glowing forge.
Two sparkling eyes were there,
Black as the beard, and trim moustache,
And curling head of hair;
119
The lips disclosed beneath
A set, full white and regular,
Of strong and handsome teeth—
The whiter, that his brow and cheek,
And thick uncovered gorge,
Were ruddy as if baked by heat
Of sun or glowing forge.
His dress was buff, or some such stuff,
And belted at the waist;
A curious dirk, for stabbing work,
Was in the girdle placed,
Beside a sort of pouch or purse
Of some wild creature's skin,
To safely hold his store of gold
Or silver coin therein;—
But—suddenly his doublet changed
To one of brighter hue,
A jerkin fair and superfine,
Of cloth of azure blue,
Slash'd front and back with satin black,
Embroider'd o'er and laced
With sable silk, as used to suit
The ancient time and taste;
His hose were of the Flemish cut,
His boots of Cordovan;
A velvet bonnet on his head,
Like that of Scottish man,—
Nay, not a velvet one,—for why,
As dreams are apt to deal,
With sudden change, as swift as strange,
It shone a cap of steel!
His coat of buff, or azure stuff,
Became a hauberk bright,
No longer gay in his array,
But harness'd for the Fight!
Huge was his frame, and muscular,
Indicative of strength:
His bosom broad, his brawny arms
Of more than common length;
And well the sturdy limbs might be
So sinewy, stark, and strong,
That had to wield in battle-field
A sword so broad and long!
Few men there were of mortal mould,
Although of warlike trade,
But had been rash to stand the crash
Of that tremendous blade;
And yet aloft he swung it oft,
As if of feather weight,
And cut amid the empty air
A monstrous figure eight;
Whilst ever, as it cleft the wind,
A whisper came therewith,
That low and clear, said in my ear,
“Behold the Fighting Smith!”
And belted at the waist;
A curious dirk, for stabbing work,
Was in the girdle placed,
Beside a sort of pouch or purse
Of some wild creature's skin,
To safely hold his store of gold
Or silver coin therein;—
But—suddenly his doublet changed
To one of brighter hue,
A jerkin fair and superfine,
Of cloth of azure blue,
Slash'd front and back with satin black,
Embroider'd o'er and laced
With sable silk, as used to suit
The ancient time and taste;
His hose were of the Flemish cut,
His boots of Cordovan;
A velvet bonnet on his head,
Like that of Scottish man,—
Nay, not a velvet one,—for why,
As dreams are apt to deal,
With sudden change, as swift as strange,
It shone a cap of steel!
120
Became a hauberk bright,
No longer gay in his array,
But harness'd for the Fight!
Huge was his frame, and muscular,
Indicative of strength:
His bosom broad, his brawny arms
Of more than common length;
And well the sturdy limbs might be
So sinewy, stark, and strong,
That had to wield in battle-field
A sword so broad and long!
Few men there were of mortal mould,
Although of warlike trade,
But had been rash to stand the crash
Of that tremendous blade;
And yet aloft he swung it oft,
As if of feather weight,
And cut amid the empty air
A monstrous figure eight;
Whilst ever, as it cleft the wind,
A whisper came therewith,
That low and clear, said in my ear,
“Behold the Fighting Smith!”
And lo! another “change came o'er
The spirit of my dream:”
The hauberk bright no longer shone
With that metallic gleam—
No ruddy visage furnace-scorch'd,
With glowing eyes, was there,
No sable beard, no trim moustache,
Nor head of raven hair;
No steely cap, with plume mayhap,
No bonnet small or big;
Upon his brow there settled now
A curly powder'd Wig!
Beneath the chin two cambric bands
Demurely drooped adown;
And from his brawny shoulders hung
A black forensic gown.
No mail beneath, to guard from death,
Or wounds in battle dealt,
Nor ready dirk for stabbing work,
Dependent at his belt—
His right hand bore no broad claymore,
But with a flourish, soon
He waved a Pistol huge enough
For any horse-dragoon,
And whilst he pointed to and fro,
As if to aim therewith,
Still in my ear, the voice was clear,
“Behold the Fighting Smith!”
The spirit of my dream:”
The hauberk bright no longer shone
With that metallic gleam—
No ruddy visage furnace-scorch'd,
With glowing eyes, was there,
121
Nor head of raven hair;
No steely cap, with plume mayhap,
No bonnet small or big;
Upon his brow there settled now
A curly powder'd Wig!
Beneath the chin two cambric bands
Demurely drooped adown;
And from his brawny shoulders hung
A black forensic gown.
No mail beneath, to guard from death,
Or wounds in battle dealt,
Nor ready dirk for stabbing work,
Dependent at his belt—
His right hand bore no broad claymore,
But with a flourish, soon
He waved a Pistol huge enough
For any horse-dragoon,
And whilst he pointed to and fro,
As if to aim therewith,
Still in my ear, the voice was clear,
“Behold the Fighting Smith!”
122
THE LAY OF THE LARK.
With dew upon its breast
And sunshine on its wing,
The lark uprose from its happy nest
And thus it seemed to sing:—
“Sweet, sweet! from the middle of the wheat
To meet the morning gray,
To leave the corn on a merry morn,
Nor have to curse the day.”
[OMITTED]
And sunshine on its wing,
The lark uprose from its happy nest
And thus it seemed to sing:—
“Sweet, sweet! from the middle of the wheat
To meet the morning gray,
To leave the corn on a merry morn,
Nor have to curse the day.”
With the dew upon their breast,
And the sunlight on their wing,
Towards the skies from the furrows rise
The larks, and thus they sing:—
“If you would know the cause
That makes us sing so gay,
It is because we hail and bless,
And never curse the day.
Sweet, sweet! from the middle of the wheat
(Where lurk our callow brood)
Where we were hatch'd, and fed
Amidst the corn on a very merry morn
(We never starve for food.)
We never starve for bread!”
[OMITTED]
And the sunlight on their wing,
Towards the skies from the furrows rise
The larks, and thus they sing:—
“If you would know the cause
That makes us sing so gay,
It is because we hail and bless,
And never curse the day.
Sweet, sweet! from the middle of the wheat
(Where lurk our callow brood)
Where we were hatch'd, and fed
Amidst the corn on a very merry morn
(We never starve for food.)
We never starve for bread!”
123
Those flowers so very blue
Those poppies flaming red,
[OMITTED]
His heavy eye was glazed and dull,
He only murmur'd “bread!”
Those poppies flaming red,
[OMITTED]
His heavy eye was glazed and dull,
He only murmur'd “bread!”
FRAGMENT.
[To note the symptoms of the times]
To note the symptoms of the times,
Its cruel and cold-blooded crimes,
One sure result we win.
Tho' rude and rougher modes, no doubt,
Of murther are not going out,
That poison's coming in.
[OMITTED]
Its cruel and cold-blooded crimes,
One sure result we win.
Tho' rude and rougher modes, no doubt,
Of murther are not going out,
That poison's coming in.
The powder that the doom'd devour
And drink,—for sugar,—meal,—or flour,
Narcotics for the young—
And worst of all, that subtle juice
That can a sudden death produce,
Whilst yet upon the tongue.
And drink,—for sugar,—meal,—or flour,
Narcotics for the young—
And worst of all, that subtle juice
That can a sudden death produce,
Whilst yet upon the tongue.
So swift in its destructive pace,
Easy to give, and hard to trace,
So potable—so clear!
So small the needful dose—to slip
Between the fatal cup and lip,
In Epsom salts or beer.
[OMITTED]
Easy to give, and hard to trace,
So potable—so clear!
So small the needful dose—to slip
Between the fatal cup and lip,
In Epsom salts or beer.
124
Arrest the plague with cannabis—
And [OMITTED] publish this,
To quench the felon's hope:—
Twelve drops of prussic acid, still
Are not more prompt and sure to kill
Than one good Drop of Rope.
And [OMITTED] publish this,
To quench the felon's hope:—
Twelve drops of prussic acid, still
Are not more prompt and sure to kill
Than one good Drop of Rope.
125
1845.
164
FRAGMENT PROBABLY WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.
I'm sick of gruel, and the dietetics,I'm sick of pills, and sicker of emetics,
I'm sick of pulses' tardiness or quickness,
I'm sick of blood, it's thinness or its thickness,
In short, within a word, I'm sick of sickness.
EPIGRAM.
[My heart's wound up just like a watch]
My heart's wound up just like a watch,As far as springs will take—
It wants but one more evil turn,
And then the cords will break!
THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY.
EPIGRAM.
A Mechanic his labour will often discard.If the rate of his pay he dislikes;
But a clock—and it's case is uncommonly hard—
Will continue to work, tho' it strikes!
165
EPIGRAM.
[As human fashions change about]
As human fashions change about,The reign of Fools should now begin,
For when the Wigs are going out
The Naturals are coming in.
188
EPIGRAM.
[A Lord bought of late an outlandish estate]
A Lord bought of late an outlandish estate,At its Wild Boars to Chevy and dig;
So some people purchase a pig in a poke,
And others, a poke in a pig.
376
STANZAS.
[Farewell, Life! My senses swim]
Farewell, Life! My senses swim;
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night,—
Colder, colder, colder still
Upward steals a vapour chill—
Strong the earthy odour grows—
I smell the Mould above the Rose!
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night,—
Colder, colder, colder still
Upward steals a vapour chill—
Strong the earthy odour grows—
I smell the Mould above the Rose!
Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns, and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—
O'er the earth there comes a bloom—
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold—
I smell the Rose above the Mould!
Strength returns, and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—
O'er the earth there comes a bloom—
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold—
I smell the Rose above the Mould!
377
APPENDIX.
396
[Come, come, I am very]
Come, come, I am very
Disposed to be merry—
So hey! for a wherry
I beckon and bawl!
'Tis dry, not a damp night,
And pleasure will tramp light
To music and lamp light
At shining Vauxhall!
Disposed to be merry—
So hey! for a wherry
I beckon and bawl!
'Tis dry, not a damp night,
And pleasure will tramp light
To music and lamp light
At shining Vauxhall!
Ay, here's the dark postal—
The check-taking mortal
I pass, and turn short all
At once on the blaze—
Names famous in story,
Lit up con amore,
All flaming in glory,
Distracting the gaze!
The check-taking mortal
397
At once on the blaze—
Names famous in story,
Lit up con amore,
All flaming in glory,
Distracting the gaze!
Oh my name lies fallow—
Fame never will hallow
In red light and yellow
Poetical toil—
I've long tried to write up
My name, and take flight up;
But ink will not light up
Like cotton and oil!
Fame never will hallow
In red light and yellow
Poetical toil—
I've long tried to write up
My name, and take flight up;
But ink will not light up
Like cotton and oil!
But sad thoughts, keep under!—
The painted Rotunder
Invites me. I wonder
Who's singing so clear?
'Tis Sinclair, high-flying,
Scotch ditties supplying;
But some hearts are sighing
For Dignum, I fear!
The painted Rotunder
Invites me. I wonder
Who's singing so clear?
'Tis Sinclair, high-flying,
Scotch ditties supplying;
But some hearts are sighing
For Dignum, I fear!
How bright is the lustre,
How thick the folks muster,
And eagerly cluster,
On bench and in box,—
Whilst Povey is waking
Sweet sounds, or the taking
Kate Stephens is shaking
Her voice and her locks!
How thick the folks muster,
And eagerly cluster,
On bench and in box,—
Whilst Povey is waking
Sweet sounds, or the taking
Kate Stephens is shaking
Her voice and her locks!
398
What clapping attends her!—
The white doe befriends her—
How Braham attends her
Away by the hand,
For Love to succeed her;
The Signor doth heed her,
And sigheth to lead her
Instead of the band!
The white doe befriends her—
How Braham attends her
Away by the hand,
For Love to succeed her;
The Signor doth heed her,
And sigheth to lead her
Instead of the band!
Then out we all sally—
Time's ripe for the Ballet,
Like bees they all rally
Before the machine!—
But I am for tracing
The bright walks and facing
The groups that are pacing
To see and be seen.
Time's ripe for the Ballet,
Like bees they all rally
Before the machine!—
But I am for tracing
The bright walks and facing
The groups that are pacing
To see and be seen.
How motley they mingle—
What men might one single,
And names that would tingle
Or tickle the ear—
Fresh Chinese contrivers
Of letters—survivors
Of pawnbrokers—divers
Beau Tibbses appear!
What men might one single,
And names that would tingle
Or tickle the ear—
Fresh Chinese contrivers
Of letters—survivors
Of pawnbrokers—divers
Beau Tibbses appear!
Such little and great men,
And civic and state men—
Collectors and rate-men—
How pleasant to nod
To friends—to note fashions,
To make speculations
On people and passions—
To laugh at the odd!
And civic and state men—
Collectors and rate-men—
How pleasant to nod
399
To make speculations
On people and passions—
To laugh at the odd!
To sup on true slices
Of ham—with fair prices
For fowl—while cool ices
And liquors abound—
To see Blackmore wander,
A small salamander,
Adown the rope yonder,
And light on the ground!
Of ham—with fair prices
For fowl—while cool ices
And liquors abound—
To see Blackmore wander,
A small salamander,
Adown the rope yonder,
And light on the ground!
Oh, the fireworks are splendid;
But darkness is blended—
Bright things are soon ended,
Fade quickly and fall!
There goes the last rocket!—
Some cash out of pocket,
By stars in the socket,
I go from Vauxhall!
But darkness is blended—
Bright things are soon ended,
Fade quickly and fall!
There goes the last rocket!—
Some cash out of pocket,
By stars in the socket,
I go from Vauxhall!
405
TO MISS KELLY,
OF THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE.
Kelly, two quiet hours agone,
Thy part was o'er, the play was done,
The tragic vision fled.
My lobster salad is discuss'd,
My wine and water mingled just,
And thou art in my head!
Thy part was o'er, the play was done,
The tragic vision fled.
My lobster salad is discuss'd,
My wine and water mingled just,
And thou art in my head!
Clifford is gone—for all the while,
And Baker's everlasting smile,
Is vanish'd from me quite,
Like foolish portraits on a wall,
Sway'd by a curtain's rise or fall,
And not for after sight.
And Baker's everlasting smile,
Is vanish'd from me quite,
406
Sway'd by a curtain's rise or fall,
And not for after sight.
But thou, without or with my will,
Thy ringing tones attend me still,
And melancholy looks;
Again I see, and echo these
Again, like golden passages
Gather'd from olden books.
Thy ringing tones attend me still,
And melancholy looks;
Again I see, and echo these
Again, like golden passages
Gather'd from olden books.
Not apt to lend my faith to cheats,
Or look for honey in the sweets
Of artificial flowers;
Though critical and curst withall,
Though early mingled grief and gall,
I recognise thy powers.
Or look for honey in the sweets
Of artificial flowers;
Though critical and curst withall,
Though early mingled grief and gall,
I recognise thy powers.
Tears thou canst bring, where tears have sprung,
Oft, from an aching heart—not wrung
By griefs at second hand;
And smiles, to lips that have not curl'd
Seldom at humours of a world
Most vigilantly scann'd.
Oft, from an aching heart—not wrung
By griefs at second hand;
And smiles, to lips that have not curl'd
Seldom at humours of a world
Most vigilantly scann'd.
And years bring very chilly damps,
That dim the splendour of the lamps,
And shame the canvas skies;
The brightest scenes, I know not how,
Have changed—and Mrs. Grove is now
No fairy in my eyes.
That dim the splendour of the lamps,
And shame the canvas skies;
The brightest scenes, I know not how,
Have changed—and Mrs. Grove is now
No fairy in my eyes.
407
I cannot weep when lovers weep,
Nor throne a tyrant in my sleep,
Nor quake at tragic screams;
The fond, the fervent faith is flown
Of boyhood; and a play is grown
Less real than my dreams.
Nor throne a tyrant in my sleep,
Nor quake at tragic screams;
The fond, the fervent faith is flown
Of boyhood; and a play is grown
Less real than my dreams.
And yet when I confront thee, still
I quite forget that sullen chill,
So perfect is thy art;
Again the vision cheats my soul,
For why? Thou dost present a whole,
Where others play a part.
I quite forget that sullen chill,
So perfect is thy art;
Again the vision cheats my soul,
For why? Thou dost present a whole,
Where others play a part.
The saddest or the shrewdest flights
Of tragical or comic wights
Are ne'er put out of joint,
And things by feebler authors writ,
Are better'd by thy better wit,
And dullness finds a point.
Of tragical or comic wights
Are ne'er put out of joint,
And things by feebler authors writ,
Are better'd by thy better wit,
And dullness finds a point.
A kind of verbal novelist,
Up and down life, thou dost enlist
All humours, high and low;
That, dramatised, inform thy face
And voice, with every trick and trace
Of human whim and woe!
Up and down life, thou dost enlist
All humours, high and low;
That, dramatised, inform thy face
And voice, with every trick and trace
Of human whim and woe!
The stage, it is thy element,
Wherein thy mind preserves its bent,
Thou dost not seek or scorn,
The critic's meed, the public praise,
As if ordain'd to live in plays,—
Not actress made, but born!
Wherein thy mind preserves its bent,
Thou dost not seek or scorn,
The critic's meed, the public praise,
As if ordain'd to live in plays,—
Not actress made, but born!
411
HINTS TO PAUL PRY.
Oh, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry,
Dear Paul—but not Virginia's Paul,
As some might haply deem, to spy
The umbrella thou art arm'd withal,
Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,
Proper for hot and tropic noons;—
Dear Paul—but not Virginia's Paul,
As some might haply deem, to spy
The umbrella thou art arm'd withal,
Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,
Proper for hot and tropic noons;—
Oh no! for thou wert never born
To watch the barren sea and cloud
In any desert isle forlorn—
Thy home is always in a crowd
Drawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,
By Liston—that dramatic Buck.
To watch the barren sea and cloud
In any desert isle forlorn—
412
Drawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,
By Liston—that dramatic Buck.
True as the evening's primrose flower,
True as the watchman to his beat,
Thou dost attend upon the hour
And house, in old Haymarket Street.
Oh, surely thou art much miscall'd,
Still Paul—yet we are never pall'd!
True as the watchman to his beat,
Thou dost attend upon the hour
And house, in old Haymarket Street.
Oh, surely thou art much miscall'd,
Still Paul—yet we are never pall'd!
Friend of the keyhole and the crack,
That lets thee pry within and pore,
Thy very nose betrays the knack—
Upturn'd through kissing with the door;
A peeping trick that each dear friend
Sends thee to Coventry, to mend!
That lets thee pry within and pore,
Thy very nose betrays the knack—
Upturn'd through kissing with the door;
A peeping trick that each dear friend
Sends thee to Coventry, to mend!
Thy bended body shows thy bent,
Inclined to news in every place;
Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent.
Stand each a query in thy face;
Thy hat a curious hat appears,
Pricking its brims up like thy ears;
Inclined to news in every place;
Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent.
Stand each a query in thy face;
Thy hat a curious hat appears,
Pricking its brims up like thy ears;
Thy pace, it is an ambling trot,
To post thee sooner here and there,
To every house where thou shouldst not,
In gait, in garb, in face, and air,
The true eavesdropper we perceive,
Not merely dropping in at eve,—
To post thee sooner here and there,
To every house where thou shouldst not,
In gait, in garb, in face, and air,
The true eavesdropper we perceive,
Not merely dropping in at eve,—
But morn and noon, through all the span
Of day,—to disconcert and fret,
Unwelcome guest to every man,
A kind of dun, without a debt,
Well cursed by porter in the hall,
For calling when there is no call.
Of day,—to disconcert and fret,
Unwelcome guest to every man,
413
Well cursed by porter in the hall,
For calling when there is no call.
Harm-watching, harm thou still dost catch—
That rule should save thee many a sore;
But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch,
A box attends thee at the door—
The household menials e'en begin
To show thee out ere thou art in!
That rule should save thee many a sore;
But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch,
A box attends thee at the door—
The household menials e'en begin
To show thee out ere thou art in!
Old Grasp regards thee with a frown,
Old Hardy marks thee for a shot,
Young Stanley longs to knock thee down,
And Subtle mourns her ruin'd plot,
And bans thy bones—alas! for why!
A tender curiosity!
Old Hardy marks thee for a shot,
Young Stanley longs to knock thee down,
And Subtle mourns her ruin'd plot,
And bans thy bones—alas! for why!
A tender curiosity!
Oh leave the Hardys to themselves—
Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams—
'Tis true that they were laid on shelves—
Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes;
More things there are, the public sigh
To know the rights of, Mr. Pry!
Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams—
'Tis true that they were laid on shelves—
Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes;
More things there are, the public sigh
To know the rights of, Mr. Pry!
There's Lady L--- the late Miss P---,
Miss P--- and lady both were late,
And two in ten can scarce agree,
For why the title had to wait;
But thou mightst learn from her own lips
What wind detain'd the lady-ship?
Miss P--- and lady both were late,
And two in ten can scarce agree,
For why the title had to wait;
But thou mightst learn from her own lips
What wind detain'd the lady-ship?
Or Mr. P!—the sire that nursed
Thy youth, and made thee what thou art,
Who form'd thy prying genius first—
(Thou wottest his untender part),
'Twould be a friendly call and fit,
To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”
Thy youth, and made thee what thou art,
Who form'd thy prying genius first—
414
'Twould be a friendly call and fit,
To know “how soon he hopes to sit.”
Some people long to know the truth
Whether Miss T. does mean to try
For Gibbon once again—in sooth,
Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry:
A verbal extract from the brief
Would give some spinsters great relief!
Whether Miss T. does mean to try
For Gibbon once again—in sooth,
Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry:
A verbal extract from the brief
Would give some spinsters great relief!
Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodge
The porter's glance, and just drop in
At Windsor's shy sequester'd lodge,
(Thou wilt, if any man can win
His way so far)—and kindly bring
Poor Cob's petition to the king.
The porter's glance, and just drop in
At Windsor's shy sequester'd lodge,
(Thou wilt, if any man can win
His way so far)—and kindly bring
Poor Cob's petition to the king.
There's Mrs. Coutts—hath she outgrown
The compass of a prying eye?
And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,
A man that makes the curious sigh;
'Twere worthy of your genius quite
To bring that lurking man to light.
The compass of a prying eye?
And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,
A man that makes the curious sigh;
'Twere worthy of your genius quite
To bring that lurking man to light.
O, come abroad, with curious hat,
And patch'd umbrella, curious too—
To poke with this, and pry with that—
Search all our scandal through and through,
And treat the whole world like a pie
Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry!
And patch'd umbrella, curious too—
To poke with this, and pry with that—
Search all our scandal through and through,
And treat the whole world like a pie
Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry!
| The works of Thomas Hood | |