by Thomas Hood
Steps o’er the marble floor; —
Across the hall, till from the wall,
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down
An old and massive Key!
A massive Key of curious shape,
And dark with dirt and rust,
And well three weary centuries
The metal might encrust!
For since the King Boabdil fell
Before the native stock,
That ancient Key, so quaint to see,
Hath never been in lock.
Brought over by the Saracens
Who fled across the main,
A token of the secret hope
Of going back again;
From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house it pass’d;
O will it ever, ever ope
The Palace gate at last? —
Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung —
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet’s will accords;
The time is come to scour the rust
And lubricate the wards.
For should the Moor with sword and lance
At Algesiras land,
Where is the bold Bernardo now
Their progress to withstand?
To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid
Five royal crowns to topple down
As gallant Diaz did?
Hath Xeres any Pounder now,
When other weapons fail,
With club to thrash invaders rash,
Like barley with a flail? —
Hath Seville any Perez still,
To lay his clusters low,
And ride with seven turbans green
Around his saddle-bow?
No! never more shall Europe see
Such Heroes brave and bold,
Such Valour, Faith, and Loyalty,
As used to shine of old!
No longer to one battle cry
United Spaniards run,
And with their thronging spears uphold
The Virgin and her Son!
From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay
Internal discord dwells,
And Barcelona bears the scars
Of Spanish shot and shells.
The fleets decline, the merchants pine
For want of foreign trade;
And gold is scant; and Alicante
Is seal’d by strict blockade! —
The loyal fly, and Valour falls,
Oppos’d by court intrigue;
But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;
While factions seeking private ends
By turns usurping reign —
Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor
Exulting point to Spain!
Well may he cleanse the rusty Key
With Afric sand and oil,
And hope an Andalusian home
Shall recompense the toil!
Well may he swear the Moorish spear
Through wild Castile shall sweep,
And where the Catalonian sowed
The Saracen shall reap!
Well may he vow to spurn the Cross
Beneath the Arab hoof,
And plant the Crescent yet again
Above th’ Alhambra’s roof —
When those from whom St. Jago’s name
In chorus once arose,
Are shouting Faction’s battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to ‘Close!’
Well may he swear his ataghan
Shall rout the traitor swarm,
And carve them into Arabesques
That show no human form —
The blame be theirs whose bloody feuds
Invite the savage Moor,
And tempt him with the ancient Key
To seek the ancient door!
THE CAPTAIN’S COW
A NAUTICAL ROMANCE
‘Water, water everywhere,But not a drop to drink.’ — Coleridge.
It is a jolly Mariner
As ever knew the billows’ stir,
Or battled with the gale;
His face is brown, his hair is black,
And down his broad gigantic back
There hangs a platted tail.
In clusters, as he rolls along,
His tarry mates around him throng,
Who know his budget well;
Betwixt Canton and Trinidad
No Sea-Romancer ever had
Such wondrous tales to tell!
Against the mast he leans a-slope,
And thence upon a coil of rope
Slides down his pitchy starn; ‘
Heaves up a lusty hem or two,
And then at once without ado
Begins to spin his yarn: —
‘As from Jamaica we did come,
Laden with sugar, fruit and rum,
It blew a heavy gale:
A storm that scar’d the oldest men
For three long days and nights, and then
The wind began to fail.
‘Still less and less, till on the mast
The sails began to flap at last,
The breezes blew so soft;
Just only now and then a puff,
Till soon there was not wind enough
To stir the vane aloft. —
‘No, not a cat’s paw anywhere:
Hold up your finger in the air
You couldn’t feel a breath;
For why, in yonder storm that burst,
The wind that blew so hard at first
Had blown itself to death.
‘No cloud aloft to throw a shade;
No distant breezy ripple made
The ocean dark below.
No cheering sign of any kind; —
The more we whistled for the wind
The more it did not blow.
‘The hands were idle, one and all;
No sail to reef against a squall;
No wheel, no steering now!
Nothing to do for man or mate,
But chew their cuds and ruminate,
Just like the Captain’s Cow.
‘ — Day after day, day after day,
Becalm’d the Jolly Planter lay,
As if she had been moor’d:
The sea below, the sky a-top
Fierce blazing down, and not a drop
Of water left aboard!
‘ — Day after day, day after day,
Becalm’d the Jolly Planter lay,
As still as any log;
The parching seamen stood about,
Each with his tongue a-lolling out,
And panting like a dog —
‘ — A dog half mad with summer heat
And running up and down the street,
By thirst quite overcome;
And not a drop in all the ship
To moisten cracking tongue and lip,
Except Jamaica rum!
‘The very poultry in the coop
Began to pine away and droop —
The cock was first to go!
And glad we were on all our parts
He used to damp our very hearts
With such a ropy crow.
‘But worst it was, we did allow,
To look upon the Captain’s Cow,
That daily seemed to shrink:
Deprived of water hard or soft,
For though we tried her oft and oft,
The brine she wouldn’t drink;
‘But only turn’d her bloodshot eye
And muzzle up towards the sky,
And gave a moan of pain,
A sort of hollow moan and sad,
As if some brutish thought she had
To pray to heav’n for rain;
‘And some times with
a steadfast stare
Kept looking at the empty air,
As if she saw, beyond,
Some meadow in her native land,
Where formerly she used to stand
A-cooling in the pond. —
‘ — If I had only had a drink
Of water then, I almost think
She would have had the half;
But as for John the Carpenter,
He couldn’t more have pitied her
If he had been her calf.
‘So soft of heart he was and kind
To any creature lame, or blind,
Unfortunate or dumb:
Whereby he made a sort of vow,
In sympathising with the Cow,
To give her half his rum; —
‘An oath from which henever swerv’d,
For surely as the rum was serv’d
He shared the cheering dram;
And kindly gave one half at least,
Or more, to the complaining beast,
Who took it like a lamb.
‘ — At last with overclouding skies
A breeze again began to rise,
That stiffen’d to a gale:
Steady, steady, and strong it blew;
And were not we a joyous crew,
As on the Jolly Planter flew
Beneath a press of sail!
‘Swiftly the Jolly Planter few.
And were not we a joyous crew,
At last to sight the land!
A glee there was on every brow,
That like a Christian soul the Cow
Appear’d to understand.
‘And was not she a mad-like thing,
To land again and taste the spring,
Instead of fiery glass:
About the verdant meads to scour,
And snuff the honey’d cowslip flower,
And crop the juicy grass!
‘Whereby she grew as plump and hale
As any beast that wears a tail,
Her skin as sleek as silk; —
And through all parts of England now
Is grown a very famous Cow,
By giving Rum-and-Milk!’
THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK
AN ALLEGORY
There’s a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street —
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of numerous feet —
While round the Workhouse door
The Labouring Classes flock,
For why? the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.
Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along —
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, crippled, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court, and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main?
Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,
In lane, and court and alley,
From homes in poverty’s lowest valley,
Furnished with shuttle and loom —
Poor slaves of Civilization’s galley —
And in the road and footways rally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,
Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil;
Dingy with smoke and dust and oil,
And smirch’d besides with vicious soil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.
Father, mother, and careful child,
Looking as if it had never smiled —
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the ghosts of garments on —
The Weaver, her sallow neighbour,
The grim and sooty Artisan;
Every soul — child, woman, or man,
Who lives — or dies — by labour.
Stirr’d by an overwhelming zeal,
And social impulse, a terrible throng!
Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel,
Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel,
Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel —
Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal —
Gushing, rushing, crushing along,
A very torrent of Man!
Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong,
Grown at last to a hurricane strong,
Stop its course who can!
Stop who can its onward course
And irresistible moral force; —
O! vain and idle dream!
For surely as men are all akin,
Whether of fair or sable skin,
According to Nature’s scheme,
That Human Movement contains within
A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.
Onward, onward, with hasty feet,
They swarm — and westward still —
Masses born to drink and eat,
But starving amidst Whitechapel’s meat,
And famishing down Cornhill!
Through the Poultry — but still unfed —
Christian Charity, hang your head!
Hungry — passing the Street of Bread;
Thirsty — the street of Milk;
Ragged — beside the Ludgate Mart,
So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art,
With cotton, and wool, and silk!
At last, before that door
That bears so many a knock —
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,
Like sheep they huddle and flock —
And would that all the Good and Wise
Could see the million of hollow eyes,
With a gleam deriv’d from Hope and the skies,
Upturn’d to the Workhouse Clock!
Oh! that the Parish Powers,
Who regulate Labour’s hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial,
Would turn from the artificial dial
That striketh ten or eleven,
And go, for once, by that older one
That stands in the light of Nature’s sun,
And takes its time from Heaven!
AN EXPLANATION
BY ONE OF THE LIVERY
Says Blue-and-Buff, to Drab-and-Pink,
‘I’ve heard the hardest word, I think,
That ever posed me since my teens,
I wonder what As-best-os means!’
Says Drab-and-Pink to Blue-and-Buff,
‘The word is clear, and plain enough.
It means a Nag wot goes the pace,
And so as best as wins the race.’
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
‘Drown’d! drown’d!’ — Hamlet
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion’d so slenderly
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve’s family
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her
fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God’s providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life’s history,
Glad to death’s mystery,
Swift to be hurl’d
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran
Over the brink of it,
Picture it think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion’d so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro’ muddy impurity,
As when with the daring