by Thomas Hood
Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed,
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed?
XIX.
And now the winged song has scaled the height
Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair,
And soon a little casement flashing bright
Widens self-open’d into the cool air —
That music like a bird may enter there
And soothe the captive in his stony cage;
For there is nought of grief, or painful care,
But plaintive song may happily engage
From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage.
XX.
And forth into the light, small and remote,
A creature, like the fair son of a king,
Draws to the lattice in his jewell’d coat
Against the silver moonlight glistening,
And leans upon his white hand listening
To that sweet music that with tenderer tone
Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing
Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan,
Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone!
XXI.
And while he listens, the mysterious song,
Woven with timid particles of speech.
Twines into passionate words that grieve along
The melancholy notes, and softly teach
The secrets of true love, — that trembling reach
His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun
He missions like replies, and each to each
Their silver voices mingle into one,
Like blended streams that make one music as they run.
XXII.
“Ah! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart,—”
“Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high—”
“Alas! our lips are held so far apart,
Thy words come faint, — they have so far to fly!—”
“If I may only shun that serpent-eye,—”
“Ah me! that serpent-eye doth never sleep;—”
“Then, nearer thee, Love’s martyr, I will die!—”
“Alas, alas! that word has made me weep!
For pity’s sake remain safe in thy marble keep!”
XXIII.
“My marble keep! it is my marble tomb—”
“Nay, sweet! but thou hast there thy living breath—”
“Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom;—”
“But I will come to thee and sing beneath,”
“And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath;—”
“Nay, I will find a path from these despairs.”
“Ah, needs then thou must tread the back of death,
Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs. —
Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares!”
XXIV.
Full sudden at these words, the princely youth
Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still
Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth,
But numb’d to dulness by the fairy skill
Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill
For intense fear) that charm’d him as he lay —
Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will,
Held some short throbs by natural dismay,
Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way.
XXV.
Now dimly seen — now toiling out of sight,
Eclipsed and cover’d by the envious wall;
Now fair and spangled in the sudden light,
And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall;
Now dark and shelter’d by a kindly pall
Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe;
Slowly he winds adown — dimly and small,
Watch’d by the gentle Swan that sings below,
Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow.
XXVI.
But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace
The marble walls about — which he must tread
Before his anxious foot may touch the base:
Long in the dreary path, and must be sped!
But Love, that holds the mastery of dread,
Braces his spirit, and with constant toil
He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread,
Impatient plunges from the last long coil;
So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil!
XXVII.
The song is hush’d, the charm is all complete,
And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake:
But scarce their tender bills have time to meet,
When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake —
His steely scales a fearful rustling make,
Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell
The sable storm; — the plumy lovers quake —
And feel the troubled waters pant and swell,
Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell.
XXVIII.
His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death,
Hiss horrible pursuit — his red eyes glare
The waters into blood — his eager breath
Grows hot upon their plumes: — now, minstrel fair!
She drops her ring into the waves, and there
It widens all around, a fairy ring
Wrought of the silver light — the fearful pair
Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling
The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.
XXIX.
Bending their course over the pale gray lake,
Against the pallid East, wherein light play’d
In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake
Circled them round continually, and bay’d
Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade
The sanctuary ring — his sable mail
Roll’d darkly through the flood, and writhed and made
A shining track over the waters pale,
Lash’d into boiling foam by his enormous tail.
XXX.
And so they sail’d into the distance dim,
Into the very distance — small and white,
Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim
Over the brooklets — follow’d by the spite
Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright
Worried them on their course, and sore annoy,
Till on the grassy marge I saw them ‘light,
And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy,
Lock’d in embrace of sweet unutterable joy!
XXXI.
Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers
Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes
Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers
The Oriental sun began to rise,
Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies;
Wherewith that sable Serpent far away
Fled, like a part of night — delicious sighs
From waking blossoms purified the day,
And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray.
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.
I.
Ah me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds
My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls?
II.
Ay, that’s the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there’s the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turn’d our table-beer!
III.
There I was birch’d! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning’s woeful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con! —
The hopel
ess leaves I wept upon! —
Most fruitless leaves to me! —
IV.
The summon’d class! — the awful bow! —
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
V.
And Mrs. S —— ? — Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlor) yet
Some favor’d two or three, —
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize — bohea?
VI.
Ay, there’s the playground! there’s the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer’s prime
So wildly I have read! —
Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?
VII.
Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?
Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?
Where’s Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase?
Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?
VIII.
Alack! they’re gone — a thousand ways!
And some are serving in “the Greys,”
And some have perish’d young! —
Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life;
And blithe Carew — is hung!
IX.
Grave Bowers teaches A B C
To savages at Owhyee;
Poor Chase is with the worms! —
All, all are gone — the olden breed! —
New crops of mushroon boys succeed,
“And push us from our forms!”
X.
Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
And leap, and skip, and mob about,
At play where we have play’d!
Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine, —
And some are in the shade!
XI.
Lo there what mix’d conditions run!
The orphan lad; the widow’s son;
And Fortune’s favor’d care —
The wealthy-born, for whom she hath
Mac-Adamised the future path —
The Nabob’s pamper’d heir!
XII.
Some brightly starr’d — some evil born, —
For honor some, and some for scorn, —
For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indiff’rent — none may lack!
Look, here’s a White, and there’s a Black
And there’s a Creole brown!
XIII.
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish their frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home; —
Some tease their future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And plant for years to come!
XIV.
A foolish wish! There’s one at hoop;
And four at fives! and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed!
And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow Cob about, —
Would I were in his steed!
XV.
Yet he would glady halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop
With this world’s heavy van —
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou canst be a horse at school,
To wish to be a man!
XVI.
Perchance thou deem’st it were a thing
To wear a crown, — to be a king!
And sleep on regal down!
Alas! thou know’st not kingly cares;
For happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!
XVII.
And dost thou think that years acquire
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood’s mirth? — Oh, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when — plays,
And see how forced our fun!
XVIII.
Thy taws are brave! — thy tops are rare! —
Our tops are spun with coils of care,
Our dumps are no delight! —
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And ’tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse’s kite!
XIX.
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead
Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground!
XX.
Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There’s sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou’lt find thy Manhood all too fast —
Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last
A sorry breaking-up!
ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER ‘CHANGE, ON THE DEATH OF THE ELEPHANT
Oh, Mr Cross!
Permit a sorry stranger to draw near,
And shed a tear
(I’ve shed my shilling) for thy recent loss!
I’ve been a visitor,
Of old, a sort of a Buffon inquisitor
Of thy menagerie — and knew the beast
That is deceased! —
I was the Damon of the gentle giant,
And oft have been,
Like Mr Kean,
Tenderly fondled by his trunk compliant;
Whenever I approach’d, the kindly brute
Flapp’d his prodigious ears, and bent his knees, —
It makes me freeze
To think of it! — No chums could better suit,
Exchanging grateful looks for grateful fruit, —
For so our former dearness was begun.
I bribed him with an apple, and beguiled
The beast of his affection like a child;
And well he loved me till his life was done
(Except when he was wild):
It makes me blush for human friends — but none
I have so truly kept or cheaply won!
Here is his pen! —
The casket, — but the jewel is away! —
The den is rifled of its denizen —
Ah, well a day!
This fresh free air breathes nothing of his grossness,
And sets me sighing, even for its closeness.
This light one-storey
Where, like a cloud, I used to feast my eyes on
The grandeur of his Titan-like horizon,
Tells a dark tale of its departed glory.
The very beasts lament the change, like me;
The shaggy Bison
Leaneth his head dejected on his knee!
Th’ Hyaena’s laugh is hush’d, and Monkey’s pout,
The Wild Cat frets in a complaining whine,
The Panther paces restlessly about,
To walk her sorrow out;
The Lions in a deeper bass repine, —
The Kangaroo wrings its sorry short fore paws,
Shrieks come from the Macaws;
The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head,
And pineth for the dead,
The Boa writhes into a double knot,
The Keeper groans
Whilst sawing bones,
And looks askance at the deserted spot —
Brutal and rational lament his loss,
The flower of thy beastly family!
Poor Mrs Cross
Sheds frequent tears into her daily tea,
And weakens her Bohea!
O Mr Cross, how l
ittle it gives birth
To grief, when human greatness goes to earth;
How few lament for Czars! —
But oh the universal heart o’erflow’d
At his high mass,
Lighted by gas,
When, like Mark Antony, the keeper show’d
The Elephant scars! —
Reporters’ eyes
Were of an egg-like size,
Men that had never wept for murder’d Marrs!
Hard-hearted editors, with iron faces
Their sluices all unclosed, —
And discomposed
Compositors went fretting to their cases! —
That grief has left its traces:
The poor old Beef-eater has gone much greyer
With sheer regret,
And the Gazette
Seems the least trouble of the beast’s Purveyor!
Well! he is dead!
And there’s a gap in Nature of eleven
Feet high by seven —
Five living tons! — and I remain — nine stone
Of skin and bone!
It is enough to make me shake my head
And dream of the grave’s brink —
’Tis worse to think
How like the Beast’s the sorry life I’ve led! —
A sort of show
Of my poor public self and my sagacity,
To profit the rapacity
Of certain folks in Paternoster Row,
A slavish toil to win an upper story —
And a hard glory
Of wooden beams about my weary brow!
Oh, Mr C.!
If ever you behold me twirl my pen
To earn a public supper, that is, eat
In the bare street, —
Or turn about their literary den —
IN MEMORIAM
Little eyes that scarce did see,
Little lips that never smiled;
Alas ! my little dear dead child,