 | The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood |  |
363
WHIMSICALITIES: A PERIODICAL GATHERING
ANACREONTIC FOR THE NEW YEAR
Come, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass
Found a proper excuse or fit season,
For toasts to be honour'd, or pledges to pass,
Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,
And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen,
Had finish'd the Months, like the flasks at a feast,
Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
Found a proper excuse or fit season,
For toasts to be honour'd, or pledges to pass,
Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,
And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen,
Had finish'd the Months, like the flasks at a feast,
Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom
The past year has been pleasant and sunny;
Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom
Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey—
Days ushered by dew-drops, instead of the tears,
Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousin—
Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
The past year has been pleasant and sunny;
Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom
Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey—
Days ushered by dew-drops, instead of the tears,
Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousin—
Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
And been bow'd to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd,
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury,—
Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,
The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
And been bow'd to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd,
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury,—
Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,
The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!
Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!
364
A MORNING THOUGHT
No more, no more will I resign
My couch so warm and soft,
To trouble trout with hook and line,
That will not spring aloft.
My couch so warm and soft,
To trouble trout with hook and line,
That will not spring aloft.
With larks appointments one may fix
To greet the dawning skies,
But hang the getting up at six,
For fish that will not rise!
To greet the dawning skies,
But hang the getting up at six,
For fish that will not rise!
NO!
No sun—no moon!No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no ‘t'other side the way’—
No end to any Row—
No indications where the Crescents go—
No top to any steeple—
No recognitions of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing 'em—
No knowing 'em!—
No travelling at all—no locomotion,
No inkling of the way—no notion—
‘No go’—by land or ocean—
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—
No Park—no Ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company—no nobility—
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,—
November!
TO MY DAUGHTER ON HER BIRTHDAY
Dear Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the Eastern glow
The landscape smil'd—
Whilst low'd the newly-waken'd herds—
Sweet as the early song of birds,
I heard those first, delightful words,
‘Thou hast a Child!’
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the Eastern glow
The landscape smil'd—
Whilst low'd the newly-waken'd herds—
Sweet as the early song of birds,
I heard those first, delightful words,
‘Thou hast a Child!’
Along with that uprising dew
Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
To me, as Time:
It was not sorrow—not annoy—
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome even Joy
Forestalls its prime.
Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
To me, as Time:
It was not sorrow—not annoy—
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome even Joy
Forestalls its prime.
So mayst thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears
Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this—I wept.
In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears
Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this—I wept.
365
EPIGRAM ON MRS. PARKES'S PAMPHLET
Such strictures as theseCould a learned Chinese
Only read on some fine afternoon,
He would cry with pale lips,
‘We shall have an Eclipse
For a Dragon has seized on the Moon!’
372
THE FLOWER
Alone, across a foreign plain,
The Exile slowly wanders,
And on his Isle beyond the main
With sadden'd spirit ponders.
The Exile slowly wanders,
And on his Isle beyond the main
With sadden'd spirit ponders.
This lovely Isle beyond the sea,
With all its household treasures;
Its cottage homes, its merry birds,
And all its rural pleasures:
With all its household treasures;
Its cottage homes, its merry birds,
And all its rural pleasures:
Its leafy woods, its shady vales,
Its moors, and purple heather;
Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars
His childhood loves to gather:
Its moors, and purple heather;
Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars
His childhood loves to gather:
When lo! he starts, with glad surprise,
Home-joys come rushing o'er him,
For ‘modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd,’
He spies the flower before him!
Home-joys come rushing o'er him,
For ‘modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd,’
He spies the flower before him!
With eager haste he stoops him down,
His eyes with moisture hazy,
And as he plucks the simple bloom,
He murmurs, ‘Lawk-a-daisy!’
His eyes with moisture hazy,
And as he plucks the simple bloom,
He murmurs, ‘Lawk-a-daisy!’
EPIGRAM: ON THE ART UNIONS
That Picture-Raffles will conduce to nourishDesign, or cause good Colouring to flourish,
Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing,
But surely Lotteries encourage Drawing!
377
ON LIEUTENANT EYRE'S NARRATIVE OF THE DISASTERS AT CABUL
A sorry tale of sorry plans,Which this conclusion grants,
That Afghan clans had all the Khans
And we had all the can'ts.
EPIGRAM ON A LATE CATTLE-SHOW IN SMITHFIELD
Old Farmer Bull is taken sick,Yet not with any sudden trick
Of fever, or his old dyspepsy;
But having seen the foreign stock,
It gave his system such a shock
He's had a fit of Cattle-epsy!
380
ON A CERTAIN LOCALITY
Of public changes, good or ill,I seldom lead the mooters,
But really Constitution Hill
Should change its name with Shooter's!
384
PARTY SPIRIT
‘Why did you not dine,’ said a Lord to a Wit,‘With the Whigs, you political sinner?’
‘Why really I meant, but had doubts how the Pit
Of my stomach would bear a Fox Dinner.’
389
A REFLECTION ON NEW YEAR'S EVE
‘Those Evening Bells—those Evening Bells!’
How sweet they used to be, and dear!
When full of all that Hope foretells,
Their voice proclaim'd the new-born Year!
How sweet they used to be, and dear!
When full of all that Hope foretells,
Their voice proclaim'd the new-born Year!
But ah! much sadder now I feel,
To hear that old melodious chime,
Recalling only how a Peel
Has tax'd the comings-in of Time!
To hear that old melodious chime,
Recalling only how a Peel
Has tax'd the comings-in of Time!
391
A FIRST ATTEMPT IN RHYME
If I were used to writing verse,
And had a muse not so perverse,
But prompt at Fancy's call to spring
And carol like a bird in Spring;
Or like a Bee, in summer time,
That hums about a bed of thyme,
And gathers honey and delights
From ev'ry blossom where it 'lights;
If I, alas! had such a muse,
To touch the Reader or amuse,
And breathe the true poetic vein,
This page should not be fill'd in vain!
But ah! the pow'r was never mine
To dig for gems in Fancy's mine:
Or wander over land and main
To seek the Fairies' old domain—
To watch Apollo while he climbs
His throne in oriental climes;
Or mark the ‘gradual dusky veil’
Drawn over Tempé's tuneful vale,
In classic lays remember'd long—
Such flights to bolder wings belong;
To Bards who on that glorious height,
Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
Partake the fire divine that burns,
In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns,
Who sang his native braes and burns.
And had a muse not so perverse,
But prompt at Fancy's call to spring
And carol like a bird in Spring;
Or like a Bee, in summer time,
That hums about a bed of thyme,
And gathers honey and delights
From ev'ry blossom where it 'lights;
If I, alas! had such a muse,
To touch the Reader or amuse,
And breathe the true poetic vein,
This page should not be fill'd in vain!
But ah! the pow'r was never mine
To dig for gems in Fancy's mine:
Or wander over land and main
To seek the Fairies' old domain—
To watch Apollo while he climbs
His throne in oriental climes;
Or mark the ‘gradual dusky veil’
Drawn over Tempé's tuneful vale,
In classic lays remember'd long—
Such flights to bolder wings belong;
To Bards who on that glorious height,
Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
Partake the fire divine that burns,
In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns,
Who sang his native braes and burns.
For me a novice strange and new,
Who ne'er such inspiration knew,
But weave a verse with travail sore,
Ordain'd to creep and not to soar,
A few poor lines alone I write,
Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
Not meant to meet the Critic's eye,
For oh! to hope from such as I,
For anything that's fit to read,
Were trusting to a broken reed!
Who ne'er such inspiration knew,
But weave a verse with travail sore,
Ordain'd to creep and not to soar,
A few poor lines alone I write,
Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
Not meant to meet the Critic's eye,
For oh! to hope from such as I,
For anything that's fit to read,
Were trusting to a broken reed!
1st of April, 1840. E. M. G.
EPIGRAM ON THE CHINESE TREATY
Our wars are ended—foreign battles cease,—Great Britain owns an universal peace;
And Queen Victoria triumphs over all,
Still ‘Mistress of herself’ though China fall!
392
THE SEASON
Summer's gone and over!
Fogs are falling down;
And with russet tinges
Autumn's doing brown.
Fogs are falling down;
And with russet tinges
Autumn's doing brown.
Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.
By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.
Round the tops of houses,
Swallows, as they flit,
Give, like yearly tenants,
Notices to quit.
Swallows, as they flit,
Give, like yearly tenants,
Notices to quit.
Skies, of fickle temper,
Weep by turns, and laugh—
Night and Day together
Taking half-and-half.
Weep by turns, and laugh—
Night and Day together
Taking half-and-half.
So September endeth—
Cold, and most perverse—
But the month that follows
Sure will pinch us worse!
Cold, and most perverse—
But the month that follows
Sure will pinch us worse!
395
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY TAKEN BY THE DAGUERREOTYPE
Yes, there are her features! her brow, and her hair,
And her eyes, with a look so seraphic,
Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there,
Truly caught by the Art Photographic!
And her eyes, with a look so seraphic,
Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there,
Truly caught by the Art Photographic!
Yet why should she borrow such aid of the skies,
When by many a bosom's confession,
Her own lovely face, and the light of her eyes,
Are sufficient to make an impression?
When by many a bosom's confession,
Her own lovely face, and the light of her eyes,
Are sufficient to make an impression?
EPIGRAM: ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY
They may talk of the plugging and sweatingOf our coinage that's minted of gold,
But to me it produces no fretting
Of its shortness of weight to be told:
All the sov'reigns I'm able to levy
As to lightness can never be wrong,
But must surely be some of the heavy,
For I never can carry them long.
398
EPIGRAM
Three traitors, Oxford—Francis—Bean,Have missed their wicked aim;
And may all shots against the Queen,
In future do the same:
For why, I mean no turn of wit,
But seriously insist
That if Her Majesty were hit
No one would be so miss'd.
| The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood | |