by Thomas Hood
He had not any creature half so vicious
At last one morning
The coachman had already given warning,
And little Cyrus —
Was gravely thinking of a new cockade,
For open War’s rough sanguinary trade,
Or any other service, quite desirous,
Instead of quarrelling with such a jade,
When accident explain’d the coil she made,
And whence her Temper had derived the virus!
Struck with the fever, called the scarlet,
The Termagant was lying sick in bed,
And little Cyrus, that precocious, varlet,
Was just declaring her ‘as good as dead,’
When down the attic stairs the housemaid, Charlotte,
Came running from the chamber overhead,
Like one demented;
Flapping her hands, and casting up her eyes,
And giving gasps of horror and surprise,
Which thus she vented —
‘O Lord! I wonder that she didn’t bite us!
Or sting us like a Tantalizer,
(The note will make the reader wiser,)
And set ns all a dancing like St. Witus!
‘Temper! No wonder that the creature had —
A temper so uncommon bad!
She’s just confessed to Doctor Griper
That being ont of Rum, and like denials,
Which always was prodigious trials,
Because she couldn’t pay the piper,
She went one day, she did, to master’s wials,
And drunk the spirit as preserv’d the Wiper!’
EPIGRAM ON THE ARRANGEMENT OF THE STATUES IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE
If Nelson looks down on a couple of Kings,
However it pleases the Loyals;
Tis after the fashion of nautical things,
A Sky-scraper over the Royals.
REFLECTIONS ON NEW YEAR’S DAY
“Yes, yes, it’s very true and very clear!
By way of compliment, and common chat,
It’s very well to wish me a New Year;
But wish me a new hat!
Although not spent in luxury and ease,
In course a longer life I won’t refuse;
But while you’re wishing, wish me if you please,
A newer pair o’ shoes!
Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat,
I own to one that I should not rebut —
Instead of this old rent, to have a coat
With more of the New Cut!
O yes, ’tis very pleasant, tho’ I’m poor,
To hear the steeple make that merry din;
Except I wish one bell was at the door
To ring new trowsers in.
To be alive is very nice indeed,
Although another year at last departs;
Only with twelve new months I rather need
A dozen of new shirts. —
Yes, yes, it’s very true, and very clear,
By way of compliment and common chat,
It’s very well to wish me a New Year,
But wish me a new hat!
THE LADY’S DREAM
The lady lay in her bed,
Her couch so warm and soft,
But her sleep was restless and broken still;
For turning oft and oft
From side to side, she mutter’d and moan’d,
And toss’d her arms aloft.
At last she startled up,
And gaz’d on the vacant air,
With a look of awe, as if she saw
Some dreadful phantom there —
And then in the pillow she buried her face
From visions ill to bear.
The very curtain shook,
Her terror was so extreme;
And the light that fell on the broider’d quilt
Kept a tremulous gleam;
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried: —
‘Oh me I that awful dream!
‘That weary, weary walk —
In the churchyard’s dismal ground!
And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round,
Death, death, and nothing but death,
In every sight and sound!
‘And oh! those maidens young,
Who wrought in that dreary room,
With figures drooping and spectres thin,
And cheeks without a bloom; —
And the Voice that cried, “For the pomp of pride,
We haste to an early tomb! —
‘“For the pomp and pleasure of
Pride,
We toil like Afric slaves,
And only to earn a home at last,
Where yonder cypress waves;” —
And then they pointed — I never saw
A ground so full of graves!
‘And still the coffins came,
With their sorrowful trains and slow;
Coffin after coffin still,
A sad and sickening show; —
From grief exempt, I never had dreamt
Of such a World of Woe!
‘Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,
That grieve this earthly ball —
Disease and Hunger, and Pain, and Want,
But now I dreamt of them all!
‘For the blind and the cripple were there,
And the babe that pined for bread,
And the houseless man, and the widow poor
Who begged — to bury the dead;
The naked, alas, that I might have clad,
The famished I might have fed!
‘The sorrow I might have soothed,
And the unregarded tears;
For many a thronging shape was there,
From long forgotten years,
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Who rais’d my childish fears! —
‘Each pleading look, that long ago
I scann’d with a heedless eye,
Each face was gazing as plainly there,
As when I pass’d it by:
Woe, woe for me if the past should be
Thus present when I die!
‘No need of sulphurous lake,
No need of fiery coal,
But only that crowd of human kind
Who wanted pity and dole —
In everlasting retrospect —
Will wring my sinful soul!
‘Alas! I have walked through life
Too heedless where I trod;
Nay, helping to trample my fellow worm,
And fill the burial sod —
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls
Not unmark’d of God!
‘I drank the richest draughts;
And ate whatever is good —
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit,
Supplied my hungry mood;
But I never remembered the wretched ones
That starve for want of food!
‘I dress’d as the noble dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,
With silk, and satin, and costly furs,
In many an ample fold;
But I never remembered the naked limb
That froze with winter’s cold.
‘The wounds I might have heal’d!
The human sorrow and smart!
And yet it never was in my soul
To play so ill a part:
But evil is wrought by want of Thought,
As well as want of Heart!’
She clasp’d her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream;
Large, and bitter, and fast they fell,
Remorse was so extreme: —
And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame
Would dream the Lady’s Dream!
MAGNETIC MUSINGS
Passing my brow, and passing my eyes,
And passing lower with devious range,
Passing my chest,
And passing the rest,
I feel a something passing strange!
Over my soul there seems to pass
A middle state of life or death,
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath!
And, methinks I hear the passing-bell;
But, Mr. Passmore, that reverend elf,
Gives me a pass that I know well,
A sort of passport to Heaven itself!
Passing my brow, and passing my eye,
And passing lower, with devious range,
Passing my chest,
And passing the rest,
I feel a something passing strange!
Oh, Mr. Eyre, Lieutenant dear!
Oh! Lady Sale, thou gallant lass!
I know for certain that ye are near,
For I feel, I feel, the Khyber Pass!
But no— ’tis Brockedon passes my brow,
And I’m in the Alpine Passes now,
With icy valleys, and snowy crests,
Whereon the passing vapour rests;
And guide and English traveller pass,
Each on a very passable ass!
Passing my ear and passing my eye!
O joy! what pastoral meads I spy,
Full of lambs that frisk and feed
While the Pastor plays on his rustic reed —
To the very best of his humble ability,
Piping ever shrill and loud,
But oh! what new magnetic cloud
Passes over my passibility!
Over my soul there seems to pass
A middle state of life or death,
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath,
No more prospects bright and sunny,
No more chance of pleasant cheer,
No more hope of passing money —
I feel the pass of the Overseer!
A DREAM
Twas night: the Globe was folded up,
(The paper, not the earth,)
And to its proper shelf restored
The fairest ‘Maid of Perth:’
But still with strange intricacy
The things that I had read —
j The Irish News, the Scottish Tale —
Kept running in my head;
While over all a sort of mist
Began to slowly creep,
The twilight haze of Thought before
It darkens into Sleep;
A foggy land where shady shapes
Kept stirring in the gloom,
Till with a hint of brighter tint
One spot began to bloom,
j And on the blank, by dreamy prank,
I saw a Figure tall,
As vivid as from painted glass,
Projected on a wall! —
The face, as well as I could trace,
Two sparkling eyes were there,
Black as the beard, and trim moustache,
And curly head of hair;
The nose was straight, the mouth was large,
The lips disclosed beneath
A set full white and regular,
Of strong and handsome teeth —
The whiter, that his brow, and cheek,
And thick uncover’d gorge,
Were ruddy as if baked by heat
Of sun or glowing forge.
His dress was buff, or some such stuff,
And belted at the waist;
A curious dirk, for stabbing work,
Was in the girdle placed,
Beside a sort of pouch or purse
Of some wild creature’s skin,
To safely hold his store of gold
Or silver coin therein; —
But — suddenly his doublet changed
To one of brighter hue,
A jerkin fair and superfine,
Of cloth of azure blue,
Slash’d front and back with satin black,
Embroider’d o’er, and laced
With sable silk, as used to suit
The ancient time and taste;
His hose were of the Flemish cut,
His boots of cordovan; —
A velvet bonnet on his head,
Like that of Scottish man,
Nay, not a velvet one, for why,
As dreams are apt to deal,
With sudden change, as swift as strange,
It shone a cap of steel!
His coat of buff, or azure stuff,
Became a hauberk bright,
No longer gay in his array,
But harness’d for the Fight! —
Huge was his frame and muscular,
Indicative of strength:
His bosom broad, his brawny arms
Of more than common length;
And well the sturdy limbs might be
So sinewy, stark, and strong,
That had to wield in battle-field
A sword so broad and long!
Few men there were of mortal mould,
Although of warlike trade,
But had been rash to stand the clash
Of that tremendous blade;
And yet aloft he swung it oft,
As if of feather-weight,
And cut amid the empty air
A monstrous figure eight;
Whilst ever as it cleft the wind,
A whisper came therewith,
That low and clear said in my ear,
‘Behold the Fighting Smith!’
And lo! another ‘change came o’er
The spirit of my dream:’
The hauberk bright no longer shone
With that metallic gleam —
No ruddy visage furnace-scorched,
With glowing eyes, was there,
No sable beard, nor trim moustache,
Nor head of raven hair;
No steely cap, with plume mayhap,
No bonnet small or big; —
Upon his brow there settled now
A curly powder’d Wig!
Beneath his chin two cambric bands
Demurely drooped adown;
And from his brawny shoulders hung
A black forensic gown.
No mail beneath, to guard from death,
Or wounds in battle dealt,
Nor ready dirk for stabbing work,
Dependent at his belt —
His right hand bore no broad claymore,
But, with a flourish, soon
He wav’d a Pistol huge enough
For any horse-dragoon,
And whilst he pointed to and fro,
As if to aim therewith,
Still in my ear, the voice was clear,
‘Behold the Fighting Smith!’
EPIGRAM
ON A PICTURE IN THE BRITISH INSTITUTION
Sir, let me just your tasteful eye enveigle
To yonder Painting, of the Madman Eagle.
Which, that by Poole? Excuse me, sir, I beg,
I really have no wish to catch ‘The Plague.’
THE KEY
A MOORISH ROMANCE
‘On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the keys of their ancestors’ houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning, and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra.’ — Scott’s Travels in Morocco and Algiers. ‘Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing? ‘ — Sancho Pansa.
The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbet he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapour
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!
One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
<
br /> While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock —
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell’d hilt —
Oh! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has spilt!
His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal; —
His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout
Of Victory or Death!
For why? the last Zebeck that came
And moor’d within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul —
The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thundercloud
The sunny land of Spain!
No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honour’s gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;
But Christians shedding Christian blood
Beneath the olive’s branch! —
A war of horrid parricide,
And brother killing brother;
Yea, like to ‘dogs and sons of dogs,’
That worry one another.
But let them bite and tear and fight,
The more the Kaffers slay,
The sooner Hagar’s swarming sons
Shall make the land a prey!
The sooner shall the Moor behold
Th’ Alhambra’s pile again; —
And those who pin’d in Barbary
Shall shout for joy in Spain —
The sooner shall the Crescent wave
On dear Granada’s walls;
And proud Mohammed Ali sit
Within his father’s halls!
‘Alla-il-alla!’ tiger-like
Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,