Thomas Hood- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Hood

  XXX.

  Quoth he, “We make all melodies our care,

  That no false discords may offend the Sun,

  Music’s great master — tuning everywhere

  All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one

  Duly to place and season, so that none

  May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn

  The shrill sweet lark; and when the day is done,

  Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn,

  That singeth with her breast against a thorn.”

  XXXI.

  “We gather in loud choirs the twittering race,

  That make a chorus with their single note;

  And tend on new-fledged birds in every place,

  That duly they may get their tunes by rote;

  And oft, like echoes, answering remote,

  We hide in thickets from the feather’d throng,

  And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat,

  Singing in shrill responses all day long,

  Whilst the glad truant listens to our song.”

  XXXII.

  “Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love

  The raining music from a morning cloud,

  When vanish’d larks are carolling above,

  To wake Apollo with their pipings loud; —

  If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud

  The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell,

  Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd,

  And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell

  Whene’er thou listenest to Philomel.”

  XXXIII.

  Then Saturn thus;— “Sweet is the merry lark,

  That carols in man’s ear so clear and strong;

  And youth must love to listen in the dark

  That tuneful elegy of Tereus’ wrong;

  But I have heard that ancient strain too long,

  For sweet is sweet but when a little strange,

  And I grow weary for some newer song;

  For wherefore had I wings, unless to range

  Through all things mutable, from change to change?”

  XXXIV.

  “But would’st thou hear the melodies of Time,

  Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll

  Over hush’d cities, and the midnight chime

  Sounds from their hundred clocks, and deep bells toll

  Like a last knell over the dead world’s soul,

  Saying, ‘Time shall be final of all things,

  Whose late, last voice must elegize the whole,’ —

  O then I clap aloft my brave broad wings,

  And make the wide air tremble while it rings!”

  XXXV.

  Then next a fair Eve-Fay made meek address,

  Saying, “We be the handmaids of the Spring;

  In sign whereof, May, the quaint broideress,

  Hath wrought her samplers on our gauzy wing.

  We tend upon buds birth and blossoming,

  And count the leafy tributes that they owe —

  As, so much to the earth — so much to fling

  In showers to the brook — so much to go

  In whirlwinds to the clouds that made them grow.”

  XXXVI.

  “The pastoral cowslips are our little pets,

  And daisy stars, whose firmament is green;

  Pansies, and those veil’d nuns, meek violets,

  Sighing to that warm world from which they screen;

  And golden daffodils, pluck’d for May’s Queen;

  And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath;

  And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen,

  Whose tuneful voice, turn’d fragrance in his breath,

  Kiss’d by sad Zephyr, guilty of his death.”

  XXXVII.

  “The widow’d primrose weeping to the moon

  And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright

  A cool libation hoarded for the noon

  Is kept — and she that purifies the light,

  The virgin lily, faithful to her white,

  Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame;

  And the most dainty rose, Aurora’s spright,

  Our every godchild, by whatever name —

  Spares us our lives, for we did nurse the same!”

  XXXVIII.

  Then that old Mower stamp’d his heel, and struck

  His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground,

  Saying, “Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck

  With gaudy buds, or like a wooer crown’d

  With flow’ry chaplets, save when they are found

  Withered? — Whenever have I pluck’d a rose,

  Except to scatter its vain leaves around?

  For so all gloss of beauty I oppose,

  And bring decay on every flow’r that blows.”

  XXXIX.

  “Or when am I so wroth as when I view

  The wanton pride of Summer; — how she decks

  The birthday world with blossoms ever-new,

  As if Time had not lived, and heap’d great wrecks

  Of years on years? — O then I bravely vex

  And catch the gay Months in their gaudy plight,

  And slay them with the wreaths about their necks,

  Like foolish heifers in the holy rite,

  And raise great trophies to my ancient might.”

  XL.

  Then saith another, “We are kindly things,

  And like her offspring nestle with the dove, —

  Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings,

  To show our constant patronage of love: —

  We sit at even, in sweet bow’rs above

  Lovers, and shake rich odors on the air,

  To mingle with their sighs; and still remove

  The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear

  Their privacy, and haunt some other where.”

  XLI.

  “And we are near the mother when she sits

  Beside her infant in its wicker bed;

  And we are in the fairy scene that flits

  Across its tender brain: sweet dreams we shed,

  And whilst the tender little soul is fled,

  Away, to sport with our young elves, the while

  We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red,

  And tickle the soft lips until they smile,

  So that their careful parents they beguile.”

  XLII.

  “O then, if ever thou hast breathed a vow

  At Love’s dear portal, or at pale moon-rise

  Crush’d the dear curl on a regardful brow,

  That did not frown thee from thy honey prize —

  If ever thy sweet son sat on thy thighs,

  And wooed thee from thy careful thoughts within

  To watch the harmless beauty of his eyes,

  Or glad thy fingers on his smooth soft skin,

  For Love’s dear sake, let us thy pity win!”

  XLIII.

  Then Saturn fiercely thus:— “What joy have I

  In tender babes, that have devour’d mine own,

  Whenever to the light I heard them cry,

  Till foolish Rhea cheated me with stone?

  Whereon, till now, is my great hunger shown,

  In monstrous dint of my enormous tooth;

  And — but the peopled world is too full grown

  For hunger’s edge — I would consume all youth

  At one great meal, without delay or ruth!”

  XLIV.

  “For I am well nigh crazed and wild to hear

  How boastful fathers taunt me with their breed,

  Saying, ‘We shall not die nor disappear,

  But, in these other selves, ourselves succeed

  Ev’n as ripe flowers pass into their seed

  Only to be renew’d from prime to prime,’

  All of which boastings I am forced to read,

  Besides a thousand challenges to Time,

  Which bragging
lovers have compiled in rhyme.”

  XLV.

  “Wherefore, when they are sweetly met o’ nights,

  There will I steal and with my hurried hand

  Startle them suddenly from their delights

  Before the next encounter hath been plann’d,

  Ravishing hours in little minutes spann’d;

  But when they say farewell, and grieve apart,

  Then like a leaden statue I will stand,

  Meanwhile their many tears encrust my dart,

  And with a ragged edge cut heart from heart.”

  XLVI.

  Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green,

  Step vanward from his mates, that idly stood

  Each at his proper ease, as they had been

  Nursed in the liberty of old Shérwood,

  And wore the livery of Robin Hood,

  Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup, —

  So came this chief right frankly, and made good

  His haunch against his axe, and thus spoke up,

  Doffing his cap, which was an acorn’s cup: —

  XLVII.

  “We be small foresters and gay, who tend

  On trees, and all their furniture of green,

  Training the young boughs airily to bend,

  And show blue snatches of the sky between; —

  Or knit more close intricacies, to screen

  Birds’ crafty dwellings, as may hide them best,

  But most the timid blackbird’s — she that, seen,

  Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest,

  Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast.”

  XLVIII.

  “We bend each tree in proper attitude,

  And founting willows train in silvery falls;

  We frame all shady roofs and arches rude,

  And verdant aisles leading to Dryads’ halls,

  Or deep recesses where the Echo calls; —

  We shape all plumy trees against the sky,

  And carve tall elms’ Corinthian capitals, —

  When sometimes, as our tiny hatchets ply,

  Men say, the tapping woodpecker is nigh.”

  XLIX.

  “Sometimes we scoop the squirrel’s hollow cell,

  And sometimes carve quaint letters on trees’ rind,

  That haply some lone musing wight may spell

  Dainty Aminta, — Gentle Rosalind, —

  Or chastest Laura, — sweetly call’d to mind

  In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down; —

  And sometimes we enrich gray stems with twined

  And vagrant ivy, — or rich moss, whose brown

  Burns into gold as the warm sun goes down.”

  L.

  “And, lastly, for mirth’s sake and Christmas cheer,

  We bear the seedling berries, for increase,

  To graft the Druid oaks, from year to year,

  Careful that mistletoe may never cease; —

  Wherefore, if thou dost prize the shady peace

  Of sombre forests, or to see light break

  Through sylvan cloisters, and in spring release

  Thy spirit amongst leaves from careful ake,

  Spare us our lives for the Green Dryad’s sake.”

  LI.

  Then Saturn, with a frown:— “Go forth, and fell

  Oak for your coffins, and thenceforth lay by

  Your axes for the rust, and bid farewell

  To all sweet birds, and the blue peeps of sky

  Through tangled branches, for ye shall not spy

  The next green generation of the tree;

  But hence with the dead leaves, whene’e they fly, —

  Which in the bleak air I would rather see,

  Than flights of the most tuneful birds that be.”

  LII.

  “For I dislike all prime, and verdant pets,

  Ivy except, that on the aged wall

  Prays with its worm-like roots, and daily frets

  The crumbled tower it seems to league withal,

  King-like, worn down by its own coronal: —

  Neither in forest haunts love I to won,

  Before the golden plumage ‘gins to fall,

  And leaves the brown bleak limbs with few leaves on,

  Or bare — like Nature in her skeleton.”

  LIII.

  “For then sit I amongst the crooked boughs,

  Wooing dull Memory with kindred sighs;

  And there in rustling nuptials we espouse,

  Smit by the sadness in each other’s eyes; —

  But Hope must have green bowers and blue skies,

  And must be courted with the gauds of Spring;

  Whilst Youth leans god-like on her lap, and cries,

  ‘What shall we always do, but love and sing?’ —

  And Time is reckon’d a discarded thing.”

  LIV.

  Here in my dream it made me fret to see

  How Puck, the antic, all this dreary while

  Had blithely jested with calamity,

  With mis-timed mirth mocking the doleful style

  Of his sad comrades, till it raised my bile

  To see him so reflect their grief aside,

  Turning their solemn looks to have a smile —

  Like a straight stick shown crooked in the tide; —

  But soon a novel advocate I spied.

  LV.

  Quoth he— “We teach all natures to fulfil

  Their fore-appointed crafts, and instincts meet, —

  The bee’s sweet alchemy, — the spider’s skill, —

  The pismire’s care to garner up his wheat, —

  And rustic masonry to swallows fleet, —

  The lapwing’s cunning to preserve her nest, —

  But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet

  And shrilly ruddock, with its bleeding breast,

  Its tender pity of poor babes distrest.”

  LVI.

  “Sometimes we cast our shapes, and in sleek skins

  Delve with the timid mole, that aptly delves

  From our example; so the spider spins,

  And eke the silk-worm, pattern’d by ourselves:

  Sometimes we travail on the summer shelves

  Of early bees, and busy toils commence,

  Watch’d of wise men, that know not we are elves,

  But gaze and marvel at our stretch of sense,

  And praise our human-like intelligence.”

  LVII.

  “Wherefore, by thy delight in that old tale,

  And plaintive dirges the late robins sing,

  What time the leaves are scatter’d by the gale,

  Mindful of that old forest burying; —

  As thou dost love to watch each tiny thing,

  For whom our craft most curiously contrives,

  If thou hast caught a bee upon the wing,

  To take his honey-bag, — spare us our lives,

  And we will pay the ransom in full hives.”

  LVIII.

  “Now by my glass,” quoth Time, “ye do offend

  In teaching the brown bees that careful lore,

  And frugal ants, whose millions would have end,

  But they lay up for need a timely store,

  And travail with the seasons evermore;

  Whereas Great Mammoth long hath pass’d away,

  And none but I can tell what hide he wore;

  Whilst purblind men, the creatures of a day,

  In riddling wonder his great bones survey.”

  LIX.

  Then came an elf, right beauteous to behold,

  Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun

  Hath all embroider’d with its crooked gold,

  It was so quaintly wrought and overrun

  With spangled traceries, — most meet for one

  That was a warden of the pearly streams; —

  And as he stept out of the shadows dun,

  His jewels sparkled i
n the pale moon’s gleams,

  And shot into the air their pointed beams.

  LX.

  Quoth he,— “We bear the gold and silver keys

  Of bubbling springs and fountains, that below

  Course thro’ the veiny earth, — which when they freeze

  Into hard crysolites, we bid to flow,

  Creeping like subtle snakes, when, as they go,

  We guide their windings to melodious falls,

  At whose soft murmurings, so sweet and low,

  Poets have tuned their smoothest madrigals,

  To sing to ladies in their banquet-halls.”

  LXI.

  “And when the hot sun with his steadfast heat

  Parches the river god, — whose dusty urn

  Drips miserly, till soon his crystal feet

  Against his pebbly floor wax faint and burn

  And languid fish, unpoised, grow sick and yearn, —

  Then scoop we hollows in some sandy nook,

  And little channels dig, wherein we turn

  The thread-worn rivulet, that all forsook

  The Naiad-lily, pining for her brook.”

  LXII.

  “Wherefore, by thy delight in cool green meads,

  With living sapphires daintily inlaid, —

  In all soft songs of waters and their reeds, —

  And all reflections in a streamlet made,

  Haply of thy own love, that, disarray’d,

  Kills the fair lily with a livelier white, —

  By silver trouts upspringing from green shade,

  And winking stars reduplicate at night,

  Spare us, poor ministers to such delight.”

  LXIII.

  Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks

  Moved not the spiteful Shade: — Quoth he, “Your taste

  Shoots wide of mine, for I despise the brooks

  And slavish rivulets that run to waste

  In noontide sweats, or, like poor vassals, haste