by Thomas Hood
In heaven — where one cannot read
The “Warren” on a wall?
What think you here of that man’s fame?
Tho’ Jerdan magnified his name,
To me ’tis very small!
XXII.
And, truly, is there such a spell
In those three letters, L. E. L.,
To witch a world with song?
On clouds the Byron did not sit,
Yet dar’d on Shakspeare’s head to spit,
And say the world was wrong!
XXIII.
And shall not we? Let’s think aloud!
Thus being couch’d upon a cloud,
Graham, we’ll have our eyes!
We felt the great when we were less,
But we’ll retort on littleness
Now we are in the skies.
XXIV.
O Graham, Graham, how I blame
The bastard blush, — the petty shame,
That used to fret me quite, —
The little sores I cover’d then,
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when
The world is out of sight!
XXV.
My name is Tims. — I am the man
That North’s unseen diminish’d clan
So scurvily abused!
I am the very P. A. Z.
The London’s Lion’s small pin’s head
So often hath refused!
XXVI.
Campbell — (you cannot see him here) —
Hath scorn’d my lays: — do his appear
Such great eggs from the sky? —
And Longman, and his lengthy Co.
Long, only, in a little Row,
Have thrust my poems by!
XXVII.
What else? — I’m poor, and much beset
With damn’d small duns — that is — in debt
Some grains of golden dust!
But only worth, above, is worth. —
What’s all the credit of the earth?
An inch of cloth on trust?
XXVIII.
What’s Rothschild here, that wealthy man!
Nay, worlds of wealth? — Oh, if you can
Spy out, — the Golden Ball!
Sure as we rose, all money sank:
What’s gold or silver now? — the Bank
Is gone — the ’Change and all!
XXIX.
What’s all the ground-rent of the globe? —
Oh, Graham, it would worry Job
To hear its landlords prate!
But after this survey, I think
I’ll ne’er be bullied more, nor shrink
From men of large estate!
XXX.
And less, still less, will I submit
To poor mean acres’ worth of wit —
I that have heaven’s span —
I that like Shakspeare’s self may dream
Beyond the very clouds, and seem
An Universal Man!
XXXI.
Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds!
Like Birds of Paradise the clouds
Are winging on the wind!
But what is grander than their range?
More lovely than their sunset change? —
The free creative mind!
XXXII.
Well! the Adults’ School’s in the air!
The greatest men are lesson’d there
As well as the Lessee!
Oh could Earth’s Ellistons thus small
Behold the greatest stage of all,
How humbled they would be!
XXXIII.
“Oh would some Power the giftie gie ‘em,
To see themselves as others see ‘em,”
’Twould much abate their fuss!
If they could think that from the iskies
They are as little in our eyes
As they can think of us!
XXXIV.
Of us! are we gone out of sight?
Lessen’d! diminish’d! vanish’d quite!
Lost to the tiny town!
Beyond the Eagle’s ken — the grope
Of Dollond’s longest telescope!
Graham! we’re going down!
XXXV.
Ah me! I’ve touch’d a string that opes
The airy valve! — the gas elopes —
Down goes our bright Balloon! —
Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell
The lower world! Graham, farewell,
Man of the silken moon!
XXXVI.
The earth is close! the City nears —
Like a burnt paper it appears,
Studded with tiny sparks!
Methinks I hear the distant rout
Of coaches rumbling all about —
We’re close above the Parks!
XXXVII.
I hear the watchmen on their beats,
Hawking the hour about the streets.
Lord! what a cruel jar
It is upon the earth to light!
Well — there’s the finish of our flight!
I’ve smoked my last segar!
A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY IN NEWGATE.
“Sermons in stones.” — As You Like It.
“Out! out! damned spot!” — Macbeth.
I.
I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing
In daily act round Charity’s great flame —
I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing,
Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim
You make to Christianity, — professing
Love, and good works — of course you buy of Barton,
Beside the young Fry’s bookseller, Friend Darton!
II.
I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute —
Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport —
I should have said, that wear, the sober suit
Shap’d like a court dress — but for heaven’s court.
I like your sisters too, — sweet Rachel’s fruit —
Protestant nuns! I like their stiff support
Of virtue — and I like to see them clad
With such a difference — just like good from bad!
III.
I like the sober colors — not the wet;
Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow —
Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet —
In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go —
The others are a chaste, severer set,
In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go —
They’re moral standards, to know Christians by —
In short, they are your colors, Mrs. Fry!
IV.
As for the naughty tinges of the prism —
Crimson’s the cruel uniform of war —
Blue — hue of brimstone! minds no catechism;
And green is young and gay — not noted for
Goodness, or gravity, or quietism,
Till it is sadden’d down to tea-green, or
Olive — and purple’s giv’n to wine, I guess;
And yellow is a convict by its dress!
V.
They’re all the devil’s liveries, that men
And women wear in servitude to sin —
But how will they come off, poor motleys, when
Sin’s wages are paid down, and they stand in
The Evil presence? You and I know, then,
How all the party colors will begin
To part — the Pittite hues will sadden there,
Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair!
VI.
Witness their goodly labors one by one!
Russet makes garments for the needy poor —
Dove-color preaches love to all — and dun
Calls every day at Charity’s street door —
Brown studies scripture, and bids woman shun
All gaudy furnishing — olive doth pour
Oil into wounds: and drab and slate supply
Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
VII.
Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor!
When all persuasions in your praises blend —
The Methodist’s creed and cry are, Fry forever!
No — I will be your friend — and, like a friend,
Point out your very worst defect — Nay, never
Start at that word! But I must ask you why
You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry?
VIII.
Top well I know the price our mother Eve
Paid for her schooling: but must all her daughters
Commit a petty larceny, and thieve —
Pay down a crime for “entrance” to your “quarters”?
Your classes may increase, but I must grieve
Over your pupils at their bread and waters!
Oh, tho’ it cost you rent — (and rooms run high)
Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
IX.
O save the vulgar soul before it’s spoil’d!
Set up your mounted sign without the gate —
And there inform the mind before ’tis soil’d!
’Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!
Nay, if you would not have your labors foil’d,
Take it inclining tow’rds a virtuous state,
Not prostrate and laid flat — else, woman meek!
The upright pencil will but hop and shriek!
X.
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain
The evil spirit from the heart it preys in, —
To bring sobriety to life again,
Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin, —
To wash Black Betty when her black’s ingrain, —
To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,
Of Suky Tawdry’s habits to deprive her;
To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!
XI.
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach
Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw —
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach
She made in manners — to write heaven’s own law
On hearts of granite. — Nay, how hard to preach,
In cells, that are not memory’s — to draw
The moral thread, thro’ the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!
XII.
In vain you teach them baby-work within:
’Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;
’Tis but a tedious darning of old sin —
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time —
It is too late for scouring to begin
When virtue’s ravell’d out, when all the prime
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains;
You’ll fret the fabric out before the stains!
XIII.
I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry!
I like your cookery in every way;
I like your shrove-tide service and supply;
I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play;
I like the pity in your full-brimm’d eye;
I like your carriage, and your silken gray,
Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;
But I don’t like your Newgatory teaching.
XIV.
Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair
Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets.
O, come abroad into the wholesome air,
And take your moral place, before Sin seats
Her wicked self in the Professor’s chair.
Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt’s
To dress them in the pan, but do not try
To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!
XV.
Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!
Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools
In jail — but at the Porch! hinting, no doubt,
That Vice should have a lesson in the rules
Before ’twas whipt by law. — O come about,
Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools
All down the Old Bailey, and thro’ Newgate Street,
But not in Mr. Wontner’s proper seat!
XVI.
Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolor;
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue
Ruin of blue, or any other color;
Teach her it is not Virtue’s crown to rue,
Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar;
Teach her that “flooring Charleys” is a game
Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.
XVII.
O come and teach our children — that ar’n’t ours —
That heaven’s straight pathway is a narrow way,
Not Broad St. Giles’s, where fierce Sin devours
Children, like Time — or rather they both prey
On youth together — meanwhile Newgate low’rs
Ev’n like a black cloud at the close of day,
To shut them out from any more blue sky:
Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!
XVIII.
You are not nice — go into their retreats,
And make them Quakers, if you will.— ‘Twere best
They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans pleats;
That they had hats with brims, — that they were drest
In garbs without lappels — than shame the streets
With so much raggedness. — You may invest
Much cash this way — but it will cost its price,
To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice!
XIX.
In brief, — Oh teach the child its moral rote,
Not in the way from which ‘twill not depart, —
But out — out — out! Oh, bid it walk remote!
And if the skies are clos’d against the smart,
Ev’n let him wear the single-breasted coat,
For that ensureth singleness of heart. —
Do what you will, his every want supply,
Keep him — but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ.,
M.P. FOR GALWAY.
“Martin in this has proved himself a very good man!”
— Boxiana.
I.
How many sing of wars,
Of Greek and Trojan jars —
The butcheries of men!
The Muse hath a “Perpetual Ruby Pen!”
Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill;
But no one sings the man
That, like a pelican,
Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill!
II.
Thou Wilberforce of hacks!
Of whites as well as blacks,
Pyebald and dapple gray,
Chestnut and bay —
No poet’s eulogy thy name adorns!
But oxen, from the fens,
Sheep — in their pens,
Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns!
Thou art sung on brutal pipes!
Drovers may curse thee,
Knackers asperse thee,
And sly M.P.’s bestow their cruel wipes;
But the old horse neighs thee,
And zebras praise thee, —
Asses, I mean — that have as many stripes!
III.
Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear,
In Smithfield’s muddy, murderous, vile environ, —
Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air!
Bullocks don’t wear
Oxide of iron!
The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon’d oft,
Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo,
; That thought his horse the courser of the two —
Whilst Swift smiled down aloft! —
O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit
Bodies of birds — (if so the spirit shifts
From flesh to feather) — when the clown uplifts
His hands against the sparrow’s nest, to grab it, —
He shall not harm the MARTINS and the Swifts!
IV.
Ah! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanc’d
The horse! — and humbled biped man like Plato!
But now he’s dead, the charger is mischanc’d —
Gone backward in the world — and not advanc’d, —
Remember Cato!
Swift was the horse’s champion — not the King’s,
Whom Southey sings,
Mounted on Pegasus — would he were thrown!
He’ll wear that ancient hackney to the bone,
Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things!
Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use
Their steeds so cruelly! — let it debar men
From wanton rowelling and whip’s abuse —
Look at the ancients’ Muse!
Look at their Carmen!
V.
O, Martin I how thine eyes —
That one would think had put aside its lashes, —
That can’t bear gashes
Thro’ any horse’s side, must ache to spy
That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane, —
For there’s a nag the crows have pick’d for victual,
Or some man painted in a bloody vein —
Gods! is there no Horse-spital!
That such raw shows must sicken the humane!
Sure Mr. Whittle
Loves thee but little,
To let that poor horse linger in his pane!