by Thomas Hood
To eye of fancy-weaver, —
Neptune, the God, seem’d tossing in
A raging scarlet fever!
Sore, sore afraid, each papist prayed
To Saint and Virgin Mary;
But one there was that stood composed
Amid the waves’ vagary:
As staunch as rock, a true game cock
‘Mid chicks of Mother Cary!
His ruddy cheek retain’d its streak,
No danger seem’d to shrink him;
His step still bold, — of mortal mould
The crew could hardly think him:
The Lady of the Lake, he seem’d
To know, could never sink him.
Relax’d at last the furious gale
Quite out of breath with racing;
The boiling flood in milder mood,
With gentler billows chasing;
From stem to stern, with frequent turn,
The Stranger took to pacing.
And as he walk’d to self he talked,
Some ancient ditty thrumming,
In under tone, as not alone —
Now whistling, and now humming —
‘You’re welcome, Charlie,’’ Cowdenknowes,’
‘Kenmure,’ or ‘Campbells’ Coming.’
Down went the wind, down went the wave,
Fear quitted the most finical;
The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot,
And Hope was at the pinnacle; —
When rose on high, a frightful cry —
‘The Devil’s in the binnacle!’
‘The Saints be near,’ the helmsman cried,
His voice with quite a falter —
‘Steady’s my helm, but every look
The needle seems to alter;
God only knows where China lies,
Jamaica, or Gibraltar!’
The captain stared aghast at mate,
The pilot at th’ apprentice; —
No fancy of the German Sea
Of Fiction the event is:
But when they at the compass look’d,
It seem’d non compass mentis.
Now north, now south, now east, now west,
The wavering point was shaken,
’Twas past the whole philosophy
Of Newton, or of Bacon;
Never by compass, till that hour,
Such latitudes were taken! —
With fearful speech, each after each
Took turns in the inspection;
They found no gun — no iron — none
To vary its direction;
It seem’d a new magnetic case
Of Poles in Insurrection!
Farewell to wives, farewell their lives,
And all their household riches;
Oh! while they thought of girl or boy,
And dear domestic niches, —
All down the side which holds the heart,
That needle gave them stitches.
With deep amaze, the Stranger gaz’d
To see them so white-liver’d:
And walk’d abaft the binnacle,
To know at what they shiver’d:
But when he stood beside the card,
St. Josef! how it quiver’d!
No fancy-motion, brain-begot
In eye of timid dreamer
The nervous finger of a sot
Ne’er showed a plainer tremor;
To every brain it seem’d too plain,
There stood th’ Infernal Schemer!
Mix’d brown and blue each visage grew,
Just like a pullet’s gizzard;
Meanwhile the captain’s wandering wit,
From tacking like an izzard,
Bore down in this plain course at last,
‘It’s Michael Scott — the Wizard!’
A smile past o’er the ruddy face.
‘To see the poles so falter
I’m puzzled, friends, as much as you,
For with no fiends I palter;
Michael I’m not — although a Scott —
My Christian name is Walter.’
Like oil it fell, that name, a spell
On all the fearful faction;
The captain’s head (for he had read)
Confess’d the Needle’s action,
And bow’d to Him in whom the North
Has lodged its main attraction!
PAIR’D, NOT MATCH’D
Of wedded bliss
Bards sing amiss,
I cannot make a song of it;
For I am small,
My wife is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it;
When we debate
It is my fate
To always have the wrong of it;
For I am small —
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it!
And when I speak
My voice is weak,
But hers — she makes a gong of it;
For I am small,
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it;
She has, in brief,
Command in Chief,
And I’m but Aide-de-camp of it;
For I am small,
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it!
She gives to me
The weakest tea,
And takes the whole Souchong of it;
For I am small,
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it;
She’ll sometimes grip
My buggy whip,
And make me feel the thong of it;
For I am small,
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it!
Against my life
She’ll take a knife,
Or fork, and dart the prong of it;
For I am small, —
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it!
I sometimes think
I’ll take a drink,
And hector when I’m strong of it;
For I am small,
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it!
O, if the bell
Would ring her knell, —
I’d make a gay ding dong of it;
For I am small,
And she is tall,
And that’s the short and long of it!
THE DUEL. A SERIOUS BALLAD
‘Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay.’
In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allow’d,
Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
You choose to rival me, —
And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.
Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.
So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell, —
I’ll pop it into you.
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.
And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I who have shot and hit bulls’ eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep’s.
Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red; —
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.
But first they sought a friend a-piece,
This pleasant thought to give —
When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.
To measure out the ground not long
The seconds then forebore,
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.
Now all was ready for the foes,
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so they found
They both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
Here one of us may fall, —
And like St. Paul’s Cathedral now,
Be doom’d to have a ball.
I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?
Said Mr. B., I do agree —
But think of Honour’s Courts!
If we go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports.
But look, the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun;
Why can’t we aim above, as if
We had call’d out the sun?
So up into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end!
SONNET TO VAUXHALL
The English Garden.’ — Mason.
The cold transparent ham is on my fork —
It hardly rains — and hark the bell! — ding-dingle —
Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,
Mocking a Vauxhall shower! — Married and Single
Crush — rush; — Soak’d Silks with wet white Satin mingle.
Hengler! Madame! round whom all bright sparks lurk,
Calls audibly on Mr and Mrs. Pringle
To study the Sublime, &c. — (vide Burke)
All Noses are upturn’d! — Whish — ish! — On high
The rocket rushes — trails — just steals in sight
Then droops and melts in bubbles of blue light —
And Darkness reigns — Then balls flare up and die —
Wheels whiz — smack crackers — serpents twist — and then
Back to the cold transparent ham again!
ODE TO MR. MALTHUS
My dear, do pull the bell,
And pull it well,
And send those noisy children all upstairs,
Now playing here like bears —
You George, and William, go into the grounds,
Charles, James, and Bob are there, — and take your string,
Drive horses, or fly kites, or any thing,
You’re quite enough to play at hare and hounds, —
You little May, and Caroline, and Poll,
Take each your doll, —
And go, my dears, into the two-back pair, —
Your sister Margaret’s there —
Harriet and Grace, thank God, are both at school,
At far off Ponty Pool —
I want to read, but really can’t get on —
Let the four twins, Mark, Matthew,
Luke, and John,
Go — to their nursery — go — I never can
Enjoy my Malthus among such a clan!
Oh Mr. Malthus, I agree
In everything I read with thee!
The world’s too full, there is no doubt,
And wants a deal of thinning out, —
It’s plain — as plain as Harrow’s Steeple —
And I agree with some thus far,
Who say the Queen’s too popular,
That is, — she has too many people.
There are too many of all trades
Too many bakers,
Too many every-thing-makers,
But not too many undertakers,
Too many boys, —
Too many hobby-de-hoys, —
Too many girls, men, widows, wives, and maids, —
There is a dreadful surplus to demolish,
And yet some Wrongheads,
With thick not long heads,
Poor metaphysicians!
Sign petitions
Capital punishment to abolish;
And in the face of censuses such vast ones —
New hospitals contrive,
For keeping life alive,
Laying first stones, the dolts! instead of last ones! —
Others, again, in the same contrariety,
Deem that of all Humane Society
They really deserve thanks,
Because the two banks of the Serpentine
By their design,
Are Saving Banks.
Oh! were it given but to me to weed —
The human breed,
And root out here and there some cumbering elf,
I think I could go through it,
And really do it
With profit to the world and to myself, —
For instance, the unkind among the Editors,
My debtors, those I mean to say
Who cannot or who will not pay,
And all my creditors.
These, for my own sake, I’d destroy; —
But for the world’s, and everyone’s,
I’d hoe up Mrs. G — — ‘s two sons,
And Mrs. B — — ‘s big little boy,
Call’d only by herself an ‘only joy.’
As Mr. Irving’s chapel’s not too full,
Himself alone I’d pull —
But for the peace of years that have to run,
I’d make the Lord Mayor’s a perpetual station,
And put a period to rotation,
By rooting up all Aldermen but one,
These are but hints what good might thus be done!
But ah! I fear the public good
Is little by the public understood, —
For instance — if with flint, and steel, and tinder,
Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man,
Proposed to throw a light upon thy plan,
No doubt some busy fool would hinder
His burning all the Foundling to a cinder.
Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday,
That wine and bun-day, —
Proposed to poison all the little Bluecoats,
Before they died by bit or sup,
Some meddling Marplot would blow up,
Just at the moment critical,
The economy political
Of saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats.
Equally ’twould be undone,
Suppose the Bishop of London,
On that great day
In June or May, —
When all the large small family of charity,
Brown, black, or carroty,
Walk in their dusty parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,
To sing together till they scare the walls
Of old St. Paul’s,
Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white,
Some say a gratifying sight,
Tho’ I think sad — but that’s a schism
To witness so much pauperism —
Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make
In this poor overcrowded world more room,
Proposed to shake
Down that immense extinguisher, the dome —
Some humane Martin in the charity Galway
I fear would come and interfere,
Save beadle, brat, and overseer,
To walk back in their parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,
Islington — Wapping — or Pall Mall way! —
Thus, people hatch’d from goose’s egg,
Foolishly think a pest, a plague,
And in its face their doors all shut,
On hinges oil’d with cajeput —
Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven,
And turning pale as linen rags
At hoisting up of yellow flags,
While you and I are crying ‘Orange Boven!’
Why should we let precautions so absorb us,
Or trouble shipping with a quarantine
When if I understand the thing you mean,
We ought to import the Cholera Morbus!
A GOOD DIRECTION
A certain gentleman, whose yellow cheek
Proclaimed he had not been in living quite An Anchorite —
Indeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day;
At last, by friends’ advice, was led to seek
A surgeon of great note — named Aberfeldie.
A very famous Author upon Diet,
Who, better starr’d than Alchemists of old,
By dint of turning mercury to gold,
Had settled at his country house in quiet.
Our Patient, after some impatient rambles
Thro’ Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brambles,
At last, to make inquiry had the nous, —
‘Here, my good man,
Just tell me if you can,
Pray which is Mr. Aberfeldie’s house?’
The man thus stopp’d — perusing for a while
The yellow visage of the man of bile,
At last made answer, with a broadish grin:
‘Why, turn to right — and left — and right agin,
The road’s direct — you cannot fail to go it.’
‘But stop! — my worthy fellow! — one word more —
From other houses how am I to know it?’
‘How! — why, you’ll see blue pillars at the door!’
THERE’S NO ROMANCE IN THAT
‘So while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all; behold, my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt’s consent and approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But here, Sir — here is the picture!’ — Lydia Languish.