Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hood
Page 65
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;
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,
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.
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!
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!
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! —
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 lip
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.’
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!
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.
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,
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!
TO THOMAS BISH, ESQ.
‘The oyster-woman locked her fish up.
And trudged away to cry “no Bish’’ —— Hudibra’s.
My Bish, since fickle Fortune’s dead,
Where throbs thy speculating head
That hatch’d such matchless stories
Of gaining, like Napoleon, all
Success on every capital,
And thirty thousand glories?
Dost thou now sit when evening comes,
Wrapt in its cold and wintry glooms,
And dream o’er faded pleasures?
See numbers rise and numbers fall, to
Hear Lottery’s last funereal call
O’er all her vanish’d treasures?
Thy head, distract ‘twixt weal and woe,
Feels the last Lottery like a blow
From malice — aimed at thee;
No prizes pass in decent rank,
Nothing is left thee but a blank,
And worthy Mrs. B.
Perchance at times thy wits may strive
With cards to keep the game alive,
And mock the old arena,
By fighting Fortune at Ecarté,
Thou Charing Cross’s Bonaparte!
In little St. Helena.
Thou’rt out of luck — for to thy share,
Not as of old, falls blank despair;
The thought oft gives the vapours.
In some ‘cursed cottage of content’
Thy baffled hopeless hours are spent
Spelling the daily papers. —
No more thy name in column stares
On the lured reader unawares;
The voice of Fame is o’er!
No more it breathes thee into print;
What is Fame’s breath? There’s nothing in’t —
The merest puff — no more!
The puff to others now belongs,
The Wrights have risen upon thy wrongs,
Rowlands to Hunts recoil!
The wheel of fortune, now forlorn,
Turns but to grind the roasted corn,
Greased with Macassar oil.
Election chances seemed a vent
For thy desires — but Parliament
Is not so easy won.
Numbers were once to thee a treat,
But now by numbers thou wert beat,
And Rowland Stephenson.
At Drury, too, the chance was thine;
But thou shalt in past glory shine,
Not as the uncertain actor;
Not as the man that opens wide
The floodgate for the public tide,
But as the Great Contractor.
And when — but Heaven protract the day —
The time is come for Life’s decay,
Prolonged shall be thy joys.
A favourite wheel shall carry thee,
And like thy darling Lottery,
Be drawn by Blue-coat boys.
A tumulus shall cover thee
And thine. A barrow it will be,
Sacred to thy one wheel.
And genuine tears, my Bish, from eyes
Of those who never got a prize,
At morn and eve shall steal.
TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY
I heard a gentle maiden, in the Spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing;
‘Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me;
‘Only for roses that your chance may throw —
Though withered — I will wear them on my brow,
To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain;
Warmed with such love, that they will bloom again.
‘Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind; —
But trust not all her fondness, though it seem,
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream.
‘Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet;
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit;
And words speak false; — yet, if they welcome prove,
I’ll be their echo, and repeat their love.
‘Only if wakened to sad truth, at last,
The bitterness to come, and sweetness past;
When thou art vext, then, turn again, and see
Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee.’ —
FLOWERS
I will not have the mad Clvtie
Whose head is turn’d by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; —
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one!
The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead; —
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red!
The lily is all in white, like a Saint,
And so is no mate for me —
And the daisy’s cheek is tipp’d with a blush,
She is of such low degree; —
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom’s betroth’d to the bee; —
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
I LOVE THEE
I love thee — I love thee!
’Tis all that I can say; —
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day;
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray,
I love thee — I love thee,
Is all that I can say. I
I love thee — I love thee!
Is ever on my tongue; —
In all my proudest poesy
That chorus still is sung;
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young:
I love thee — I love thee,
A thousand maids among.
I love thee — I love thee!
Thy bright and hazel glance,
The mellow lute upon those lips,
Whose tender tones entrance; —
But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs
That still these words enhance,
I love thee — I love thee;
Whatever be thy chance.
BALLAD: IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER
It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast!
It was the time of roses,
We plucked them as we passed!
That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet! —
Oh no — the world was newly crowned
With flowers, when first we met.
’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast; —
It was the time of roses,
We plucked them as we passed!
What else could peer my glowing cheek
That tears began to stud? —
And when I asked the like of Love
You snatched a damask bud,
And oped it to the dainty core
Still glowing to the last: —
It was the time of roses,
We plucked them as we passed!
ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.
BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT GRETNA GREEN
Ah me! what causes such complaining breath,
Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow?
It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death,
For laying Laing low!
From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe —
A shrill and persevering loud lament,
Echoed by Mrs. T.’s Establishment
‘For Six Young Ladies,
In a retired and healthy part of Kent.’
All weeping, Mr. L —— — gone down to Hades! —
Thoughtful of grates, and convents, and The veil!
Surrey takes up the tale,
And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones,
With the two parlour-boarders and th’ apprentice —
So universal this mis-timed event is —
Are joining sobs and groans!
The shock confounds all hymeneal planners,
And drives the sweetest from their sweet behaviours:
The girls at Manor House forget their manners,
And utter sighs like paviours! —
Down — down through Devon and the distant shires
Travels the news of Death’s remorseless crime;
And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires
Of matches against time!
Along the northern route
The road is water’d by postilions’ eyes;
The topboot paces pensively about,
And yellow jackets are all stain’d with sighs;
There is a sound of grieving at the Ship,
And sorry hands are wringing at the Bell,
In aid of David’s knell.
The postboy’s heart is cracking — not his whip! —
To gaze upon those useless empty collars
His wayworn horses seem so glad to slip —
And think upon the dollars
That used to urge his gallop — quicker! quicker!
All hope is fled,
For Laing is dead —
Vicar of Wakefield — Edward Gibbon’s vicar!
The barristers shed tears —
Enough to feast a snipe (snipes live on suction) —
To think in after years
No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction,
Nor knaves inveigle
Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal;
The dull reporters
Look truly sad and seriously solemn,
To lose the future column
On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters! —
But grave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood —
Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeau —
That never real beau of flesh and blood
Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chambaud.
Sleep — David Laing! — sleep
In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee!
Over thy grave a thousand maidens weep,
And honest postboys mourn thee!
Sleep, David! — safely and serenely sleep,
Bewept of many a learned legal eye! —
To see the mould above thee in a heap —
Drowns many a lid that heretofore was dry! —
Especially of those that, plunging deep,
In love, would ‘ride and tie!’
Had I command, thou should’st have gone thy ways
In chaise and pair — and lain in Père-la-Chaise!
ODE
‘I’ll give him dash for dash.’
J[erda]n, farewell! farewell to all
Who ever prais’d me, great or small;
Your poet’s course is run!
A weekly — no, an ev’ryday
Reviewer takes my fame away,
And I am all undone! I
I cannot live an author long!
When I did write, Ο I did wrong
To aim at being great;
A Diamond Poet in a pin —
May twinkle on in peace, and win
No diamond critic’s hate!
No small inditer of reviews
Will analyse his tiny muse,
Or lay his sonnets waste;
Who strives to prove that Richardson,
That calls himself a diamond one,
Is but a bard of paste?
The smallest bird that wings the sky
May tempt some sparrowshot and die;
But midges still go free! —
The peace that shuns my board and bed
May settle on a lowlier head,
And dwell, ‘St. John, with thee!’
I aim’d at higher growth; and now
My leaves are wither’d on the bough,
I’m choked by bitter shrubs!
O Mr. F. C. W.!
What can I christen thy review
But one of ‘Wormwood Scrubs?’
The very man that sought me once —
Can I so soon be grown a dunce? —
He now derides my verse;
But who, save me, will fret to find
The editor has changed his mind,
He can’t have got a worse.
A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY
Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,
All chivalrous romantic work
Is ended now and past! —
That iron age — which some have thought
Of metal rather overwrought —
Is now all overcast!
Ay, where are those heroic knights
Of old — those armadillo wights
Who wore the plated vest! —
Great Charlemagne, and all his peers
Are cold — enjoying with their spears
An everlasting rest! —
The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound,
So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such éclat!
Oh Time has pluck’d that plumy brow!
And none engage at turneys now
But those who go to law.
Grim John o’ Gaunt is quite gone by,
And Guy is nothing but a Guy,
Orlando lies forlorn! —
Bold Sidney, and his kidney — nay,
Those ‘early Champions’ — what are they
But ‘Knights without a mom!’
No Percy branch now perseveres
Like those of old in breaking spears —
The name is now a lie! —
Surgeons, alone, by any chance,
Are all that ever couch a lance
To couch a body’s eye! —
Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick,
That cut the Moslems to the quick,