by Thomas Hood
’Twas all delusion! What are earthly joys
But pleasing dreams our wakening destroys;
And I have wakened, yea, to scenes of pain
That make me wish that I could dream again.
‘ Love is a madness — happiness a dream!
And Hope and Friendship things that only seem.
I’ve tried them all, and found them all untrue,
And long have bid them and the world adieu;
I loved it once, and prized its idle state —
Suspected — then despised — and now — I hate!’
Thus spoke the Chief, but now in angry tone
He spoke aloud—’ Why am I here alone?
Why am I fettered when all else are free,
And left to act their crimes at large but me?
And greater villains that deserve my fate’ —
He turned indignantly and left the grate,
Where he could see the swallows round him skim,
And all in happy liberty but him.
E’en thus, a wild enthusiast in all
The Chief had been, and it had shed his fall.
One he had known — his honourable sire —
Such as his heart could cherish and admire,
And loved to imitate, and Fancy dressed
And with his virtues painted all the rest —
Free, open, generous, gay, noble, young,
Assailed too often by the flattering tongue;
Affected love and preferred friendships fell,
He prized too highly and believed too well;
Beloved, he thought, by all, and loving too,
These were the best, the happiest days he knew;
Blest in his blindness! For how blest is he
Who sees the world as it ought to be;
Who, pressed by want, or misery, or woe,
Still finds, or fancies, friends, but not a foe,
And with Despair successfully can cope,
Buoyed up by frail but never-failing Hope,
Though never realized, and blessed at last
If the veil drops not and reveals the past.
Not so with him, for soon as fortune wore
A frowning look, and friends were friends no more
But shunned his woe, not blushing to condemn
The very faults that had exalted them;
Or rising undisguised as open foes,
Scarce deigned to hide they triumphed in his woes
But hailed the fall that left him now too weak
Just vengeance for their injuries to wreak!
Then from his cheated eyes the film soon cleared,
And all the world’s deformity appeared.
Once he had loved it, and too highly prized,
But now as strongly hated and despised
He fled its vile contagion with speed —
A misanthrope — nor more in word than deed!
By Flattery, that with the world began
The woes, abasement, and the fall of man;
That, demon-like, still ruins and beguiles,
And while betraying each sad victim smiles!
Thus felt the Chief. How hapless are the great,
If such their evils and too oft their fate.
Truth they ne’er know divested of disguise,
And scarcely see but through another’s eyes; —
But, knowing other men — and, what is more,
Knowing themselves — how happy are the poor;
Too oft condemned for vices they have not,
And scarce allowed the virtues they have got;
None ever flatter them — nor oft they fail
Betrayed by vanity or flattering tale.
But to my theme. The Chieftain turned away
As though he sought to shun the light of day.
On his hard couch he threw his limbs once more,
All racked with pain, or stiff with clotted gore;
And while across his pale and varying cheek
The sudden throbs of anguish seemed to speak,
His wild and working brain appeared as fraught
With far more keen and agonizing thought;
Remembrance, perhaps, of gay and happier times,
Linked with the memory of after crimes,
And keen remorse that shudders o’er the past,
With deep regret for joys that fled too fast,
And doubtings of the future and his fate,
And all the sorrows of his present state,
With all their varied pangs, were mingled there,
Nor sunk nor settled, but in calm despair.
Oh, who can speak that wandering of thought,
When, with all varied recollections fraught,
In wild confusion the bewildered brain
Now turns from woe to joy — from joy to pain;
Now sinks and saddens over present woes,
And now o’er scenes of former pleasure glows;
Regretting joys and means which, once possessed,
If better known or valued, would have blessed;
Thus boiled the Chieftain’s brain, and pondered o’er
The scenes of long-lost happiness once more.
Yes; Twas the mansion of his sires he eyed,
Such as it had been in the days of pride,
Though many a lingering, long, and painful day
Since he had left its roof had passed away;
Yet could not time nor misery efface
Of former joys the long remembered trace.
No; though each hope of happiness had flown —
Had left the bitterness of life alone;
Though deeds of guilt his soul had long bereft
Of the last solace to the wretched left;
Undimmed the retrospect of happy years
Shone bright through times of misery and tears;
And oft, as in delusive dream restored,
We greet departed friends we’ve long deplored,
His mind forgot the sense of present pain,
Arid dreamed o’er scenes of happiness again.
E’en now, abstracted from his present state, —
His pain, misfortune, and impending fate, —
His mind retraced the ever-pleasing scene
Of things, times, pleasures, feelings that had been.
But, suddenly, a harsh discordant sound
Roused him to consciousness of things around.
He started, and strove vainly to recall
The fleeting phantoms on the dungeon wall,
But they had fled in air like parting breath,
And left him with the Messenger of Death!
With calm, unaltered voice, unvarying cheek,
The fated Prisoner was the first to speak:
‘I know thy message — no unwelcome one
To him whose days of misery are done.
The time is gone such tidings could impart
Reluctance, grief, or terror to my heart.
Too long the cup of bitterness I’ve quaffed
Without one hope e’er mingled in the draught
To quit this wretched being with regret;
And as for Death — why, I can brave him yet; —
Nay, as an Angel — Harbinger of Peace —
I’ll hail the Spectre if he bring release!’ —
‘Enough!’ —
Harsh as the grating hinge, and rough,
Responsive rung the keeper’s loud ‘Enough.’
Surprised, he turned again — ne’er till that hour,
Of all the inmates of that gloomy tower,
None had he known who gazed on Death so near
With such rejoicing and so little fear.
But, lo! he started as he seemed to trace
Some dear remembrance in the captive’s face;
Swift to embrace the prisoner he flew —
‘Oh, heaven! — my lord — my master — is it you?’
Up rose the Chieftain with a sudde
n start,
That voice had struck upon his throbbing heart!
‘Ha! Is it Donald! or a mocking dream?
Are these things so, or do they only seem?
Am I awake? The gaoler bent the knee —
‘Alas, no dream — dear master, I am he!’
All pride forgotten quite, the Chieftain pressed
His former steward warmly to his breast,
But rudely bursting from the Chief’s embrace
He paused, and wildly gazed around the place.
‘Oh, I forgot you lingered here to die.
Behold the keys! Oh, take them now and fly:
My clothes, perchance, will happily disguise
And shroud your person from more careless eyes.
For, ah, though Arden kneels before the throne,
I fear ‘twill change the punishment alone —
The gibbet to the block — our nobles hate
The noble soul that made you once so great.
No hope remains but this — let me implore
Your speedy flight.’
The Chieftain frowned—’ No more!
Perchance ’tis justice dooms me now to bleed,
And you would save me by a traitor’s deed!
When have I fled my foes or valued life,
Or shrunk when Death menaced me in the strife?
Perhaps one more in love with life than I
Would hail the terms, but now I scorn to fly!
Beside your hate and punishment, too sure,
Would leave my safety still too insecure.’
Proudly he answered—’ Have you then forgot
The loathsome dungeon — once my cruel lot
To linger there a sad and joyless time —
Misfortune’s punishment, and not for crime?
Your bounty freed me thence, and now ’tis due
From gratitude to pay the same for you.
And, ah! my life I cheerfully resign,
For many woes — few comforts — now are mine!
Oh, add one more — O, hark! The warning bell,
One short hour more, it tolls your parting knell.
I pray! — I kneel!’ —
‘O give me not the pain,’
The Chieftain said, ‘to see you kneel in vain.
I am resolved — a solemn oath I swore—’
To leave these hated walls with life no more.
That oath I keep; but, would you glad my soul,
Bring me a dagger or a poisoned bowl.
This last request I urge with latest breath,
Oh! spare your Chief an ignominious death!’
‘Alas, I know Glenallan’s word too well
To hope to move you now, my Lord — Farewell!
I have a dagger, but my heart shall feel
Its deepest reach ere you shall use the steel.
What! can no other hand but mine be pressed
To lend the dagger for my Patron’s breast!
Ah! it must be! once more, my lord, adieu;
My death alone surrenders it to you!’
He raised his hand, but with a sudden clasp
The Chieftain caught the dagger in his grasp.
‘Ha! Now I laugh to scorn the feeble chain,
The guarded fortress shall not e’en detain.
In vain shall vengeful crowds impatient flock
To see my head fall streaming from the block;
Exulting peers shall not behold me fall,
And for their tortures I elude them all.
Dungeon and fetters may the limbs control,
But what can fetter or confine the soul?
Now I am free — live to behold me die,
And tell the world Glenallan scorned to fly;
And tell with all the courage of a friend
No sign of weakness marked my latter end.
Live, I command you! say to Arden this —
I thank his zeal and pray heaven send him bliss;
Tell him to love’ — it died upon his tongue,
The gaoler’s hand in agony he wrung.
Each strove to speak, but wept, embraced anew,
They only in their hearts could say—’ Adieu!’
Thus had they lingered, but the distant sound
Of hurried, footsteps broke the silence round.
Still nearer comes the noise — they rush apart,
A moment more, he aims against his heart —
’Tis missed — he strikes again — too sure the aim —
The deathless spirit quits its mortal frame,
That still and silent lies amid its gore,
And tells to all — Glenallan is no more!
Again the bolts recede, the jarring din
No more disturbs the prisoner within;
He wakes no more, nor can that sound impart
One quicker throb of terror to his heart;
Too late the lingering voice of mercy calls,
And ‘Pardon!’
‘Pardon!’ echoes to the walls.
He hears it not — nor would the tidings give
More joy, perchance, or pleasure did he live.
But o’er his body hath he still a friend,
Who seems in silent agony to bend.
All knew his crimes too well, and some had wept
The loss of friends where his revenge had swept,
But Arden weeps his breathless body o’er,
And Donald’s tears are mingled with his gore;
Together now they pour the sorrowing sigh,
Nor let him quite unwept, unpitied die!
APPENDIX: J. H. REYNOLDS’S CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE ‘ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE’ (1825)
CONTENTS
ODE TO MR. M’ADAM
ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE
ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ.
ADDRESS TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE
AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND JOHN
CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER.
LINES TO MISS F. KEMBLE
ODE TO MR. M’ADAM
‘Let us take to the road.’ — Beggar’s Opera.
1
M’ADAM, hail!
Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand
Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land!
Oh universal Leveller! all hail!
To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,
The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going, —
To thee, — how much for thy commodious plan,
Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing!
The Bristol mail,
Gliding o’er ways hitherto deem’d invincible,
When carrying Patriots now shall never fail
Those of the most ‘unshaken public principle.’
Hail to thee, Scot of Scots!
Thou northern light, amid those heavy men!
Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside,
Thou scatter’st flints and favours far and wide,
From palaces to cots; —
Dispenser of coagulated good!
Distributor of granite and of food!
Long may thy fame its even path march on,
E’en when thy sons are dead!
Best benefactor! though thou giv’st a stone
To those who ask for bread!
2
Thy first great trial in this mighty town
Was, if I rightly recollect, upon
That gentle hill which goeth
Down from ‘ the County’ to the Palace gate,
And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth
Past the Old Horticultural Society, —
The chemist Cobb’s, the house of Howell and James,
Where ladies play high shawl and satin games —
A little Hell of lace! — .
And past the Athenaeum, made of late,
Severs a sweet variety
Of milliners and booksellers who grace
Waterloo Place,
Making divi
sion, the Muse fears and guesses,
‘Twixt Mr. Rivington’s and Mr. Hessey’s.
Thou stood’st thy trial, Mac! and shav’d the road
From Barber Beaumont’s to the King’s abode
So well, that paviours threw their rammers by,
Let down their tuck’d shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh
Prepar’d themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!
3
Next, from the palace to the prison, thou
Didst go, the highway’s watchman, to thy beat, —
Preventing though the rattling in the street,
Yet kicking up a row
Upon the stones — ah! truly watchman-like,
Encouraging thy victims all to strike,
To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily; —
Thou hast smooth’d, alas, the path to the Old Bailey!
And to the stony bowers
Of Newgate, to encourage the approach,
By caravan or coach, —
Hast strew’d the way with flints as soft as flowers.
4
Who shall dispute thy name!
Insculpt in stone in every street,
We soon shall greet
Thy trodden down, yet all unconquer’d fame!
Where’er we take, even at this time, our way,
Nought see we, but mankind in open air,
Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare
And with a patient care,
Chipping thy immortality all day!
Demosthenes, of old — that rare old man —
Prophetically, follow’d, Mac! thy plan: —
For he, we know,
(History says so,)
Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak
The smoothest Greek!
5
It is ‘impossible, and cannot be,’
But that thy genius hath,
Besides the turnpike, many another path
Trod, to arrive at popularity.
O’er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh,
Nor ridden a roadster only; mighty Mac!
And ‘faith I’d swear, when on that winged hack,
Thou hast observ’d the highways in the sky!
Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep,
And ‘hard to climb,’ as Dr. B. would say?
Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keep