Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark,
Will seek the fruitful perils of the place,
To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark
That bear that serpent image on their face.
And Love, brave Love! though he attempt the base,
Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win
His captive lady from the strict embrace
Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within
His sable folds--like Eve enthrall'd by the old Sin.

VII.

But there is none--no knight in panoply,
Nor Love, intrench'd in his strong steely coat:
No little speck--no sail--no helper nigh,
No sign--no whispering--no plash of boat:--
The distant shores show dimly and remote,
Made of a deeper mist,--serene and gray,--
And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float
Over the gloomy wave, and pass away,
Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play.

VIII.

And bright and silvery the willows sleep
Over the shady verge--no mad winds tease
Their hoary heads; but quietly they weep
Their sprinkling leaves--half fountains and half trees:
Their lilies be--and fairer than all these,
A solitary Swan her breast of snow
Launches against the wave that seems to freeze
Into a chaste reflection, still below
Twin shadow of herself wherever she may go.

IX.

And forth she paddles in the very noon
Of solemn midnight like an elfin thing,
Charm'd into being by the argent moon--
Whose silver light for love of her fair wing
Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping
Her dainty plumage:--all around her grew
A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring;
And all behind, a tiny little clue
Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue.

X.

And sure she is no meaner than a fay,
Redeem'd from sleepy death, for beauty's sake,
By old ordainment:--silent as she lay,
Touched by a moonlight wand I saw her wake,
And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake
The verdant prison of her lily peers,
That slept amidst the stars upon the lake--
A breathing shape--restored to human fears,
And new-born love and grief--self-conscious of her tears.

XI.

And now she clasps her wings around her heart,
And near that lonely isle begins to glide,
Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start
Turns her impatient head from side to side
In universal terrors--all too wide
To watch; and often to that marble keep
Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied
Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep
That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep.

XII.

And well she may, to spy that fearful thing
All down the dusky walls in circlets wound;
Alas! for what rare prize, with many a ring
Girding the marble casket round and round?
His folded tail, lost in the gloom profound,
Terribly darkeneth the rocky base;
But on the top his monstrous head is crown'd
With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face
Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place.

XIII.

Alas! of the hot fires that nightly fall,
No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite,
So he may never see beneath the wall
That timid little creature, all too bright,
That stretches her fair neck, slender and white,
Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries
Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night
With song--but, hush--it perishes in sighs,
And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies!

XIV.

She droops--she sinks--she leans upon the lake,
Fainting again into a lifeless flower;
But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake
Her spirit from its death, and with new power
She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower
Of tender song, timed to her falling tears--
That wins the shady summit of that tower,
And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears,
Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears.

XV.

And, lo! the scaly beast is all deprest,
Subdued like Argus by the might of sound--
What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest
To magic converse with the air, and bound
The many monster eyes, all slumber-drown'd:--
So on the turret-top that watchful Snake
Pillows his giant head, and lists profound,
As if his wrathful spite would never wake,
Charm'd into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sake!

XVI.

His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown,
And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies,
To drink that dainty flood of music down--
His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs--
And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies,
His looks for envy of the charmed sense
Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes,
Stung into pain by their own impotence,
Distil enormous tears into the lake immense.

XVII.

Oh, tuneful Swan! oh, melancholy bird!
Sweet was that midnight miracle of song,
Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word
To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong--
Hinting a piteous tale--perchance how long
Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake,
What time disguised thy leafy mates among--
And no eye knew what human love and ache
Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break.

XVIII.

Therefore no poet will ungently touch
The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew
Trembles like tears; but ever hold it such
As human pain may wander through and through,
Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue--
Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb'd,
By magic spells. Alas! who ever knew
Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed,
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed?

XIX.

And now the winged song has scaled the height
Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair,
And soon a little casement flashing bright
Widens self-open'd into the cool air--
That music like a bird may enter there
And soothe the captive in his stony cage;
For there is nought of grief, or painful care,
But plaintive song may happily engage
From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage.

XX.

And forth into the light, small and remote,
A creature, like the fair son of a king,
Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat
Against the silver moonlight glistening,
And leans upon his white hand listening
To that sweet music that with tenderer tone
Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing
Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan,
Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone!

XXI.

And while he listens, the mysterious song,
Woven with timid particles of speech.
Twines into passionate words that grieve along
The melancholy notes, and softly teach
The secrets of true love,--that trembling reach
His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun
He missions like replies, and each to each
Their silver voices mingle into one,
Like blended streams that make one music as they run.

XXII.

"Ah! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart,--"
"Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high--"
"Alas! our lips are held so far apart,
Thy words come faint,--they have so far to fly!--"
"If I may only shun that serpent-eye,--"
"Ah me! that serpent-eye doth never sleep;--"
"Then, nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die!--"
"Alas, alas! that word has made me weep!
For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep!"

XXIII.

"My marble keep! it is my marble tomb--"
"Nay, sweet! but thou hast there thy living breath--"
"Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom;--"
"But I will come to thee and sing beneath,"
"And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath;--"
"Nay, I will find a path from these despairs."
"Ah, needs then thou must tread the back of death,
Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs.--
Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares!"

XXIV.

Full sudden at these words, the princely youth
Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still
Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth,
But numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill
Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill
For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay--
Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will,
Held some short throbs by natural dismay,
Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way.

XXV.

Now dimly seen--now toiling out of sight,
Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall;
Now fair and spangled in the sudden light,
And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall;
Now dark and shelter'd by a kindly pall
Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe;
Slowly he winds adown--dimly and small,
Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below,
Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow.

XXVI.

But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace
The marble walls about--which he must tread
Before his anxious foot may touch the base:
Long in the dreary path, and must be sped!
But Love, that holds the mastery of dread,
Braces his spirit, and with constant toil
He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread,
Impatient plunges from the last long coil;
So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil!

XXVII.

The song is hush'd, the charm is all complete,
And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake:
But scarce their tender bills have time to meet,
When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake--
His steely scales a fearful rustling make,
Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell
The sable storm;--the plumy lovers quake--
And feel the troubled waters pant and swell,
Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell.

XXVIII.

His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death,
Hiss horrible pursuit--his red eyes glare
The waters into blood--his eager breath
Grows hot upon their plumes:--now, minstrel fair!
She drops her ring into the waves, and there
It widens all around, a fairy ring
Wrought of the silver light--the fearful pair
Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling
The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.

XXIX.

Bending their course over the pale gray lake,
Against the pallid East, wherein light play'd
In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake
Circled them round continually, and bay'd
Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade
The sanctuary ring--his sable mail
Roll'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made
A shining track over the waters pale,
Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous tail.

XXX.

And so they sail'd into the distance dim,
Into the very distance--small and white,
Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim
Over the brooklets--follow'd by the spite
Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright
Worried them on their course, and sore annoy,
Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light,
And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy,
Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy!

XXXI.

Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers
Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes
Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers
The Oriental sun began to rise,
Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies;
Wherewith that sable Serpent far away
Fled, like a part of night--delicious sighs
From waking blossoms purified the day,
And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.[5]

[Footnote 5: No connection with any other Ode.]

I.

Ah me! those old familiar bounds! That classic house, those classic grounds My pensive thought recalls! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine, Within yon irksome walls?

II.

Ay, that's the very house! I know Its ugly windows, ten a-row! Its chimneys in the rear! And there's the iron rod so high, That drew the thunder from the sky And turn'd our table-beer!

III.

There I was birch'd! there I was bred! There like a little Adam fed From Learning's woeful tree! The weary tasks I used to con!-- The hopeless leaves I wept upon!-- Most fruitless leaves to me!--

IV.

The summon'd class!--the awful bow!-- I wonder who is master now And wholesome anguish sheds! How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads!

V.

And Mrs. S----?--Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the parlor) yet Some favor'd two or three,-- The little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour, And swill her prize--bohea?

VI.

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime, Beneath whose shade in summer's prime So wildly I have read!-- Who sits there _now_, and skims the cream Of young Romance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread?

VII.

Who struts the Randall of the walk? Who models tiny heads in chalk? Who scoops the light canoe? What early genius buds apace? Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?

VIII.

Alack! they're gone--a thousand ways! And some are serving in "the Greys," And some have perish'd young!-- Jack Harris weds his second wife; Hal Baylis drives the _wane_ of life; And blithe Carew--is hung!

IX.

Grave Bowers teaches A B C To savages at Owhyee; Poor Chase is with the worms!-- All, all are gone--the olden breed!-- New crops of mushroon boys succeed, "And push us from our _forms_!"

X.

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about, At play where we have play'd! Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine Their crony arms; some in the shine,-- And some are in the shade!

XI.

Lo there what mix'd conditions run! The orphan lad; the widow's son; And Fortune's favor'd care-- The wealthy-born, for whom she hath Mac-Adamised the future path-- The Nabob's pamper'd heir!

XII.

Some brightly starr'd--some evil born,-- For honor some, and some for scorn,-- For fair or foul renown! Good, bad, indiff'rent--none may lack! Look, here's a White, and there's a Black And there's a Creole brown!

XIII.

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish _their_ frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home;-- Some tease their future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man, And plant for years to come!

XIV.

A foolish wish! There's one at hoop; And four at _fives_! and five who stoop The marble taw to speed! And one that curvets in and out, Reining his fellow Cob about,-- Would I were in his _steed_!

XV.

Yet he would glady halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van-- To toil, to tug. O little fool! While thou canst be a horse at school, To wish to be a man!

XVI.

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing To wear a crown,--to be a king! And sleep on regal down! Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; For happier is thy head that wears That hat without a crown!

XVII.

And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son? That manhood's mirth?--Oh, go thy ways To Drury-lane when--_plays_, And see _how forced_ our fun!

XVIII.

Thy taws are brave!--thy tops are rare!-- _Our_ tops are spun with coils of care, Our _dumps_ are no delight!-- The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite!

XIX.

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground!

XX.

Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; There's sky-blue in thy cup! Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast-- Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last A sorry _breaking-up_!

SONG.

There is dew for the flow'ret[6]
And honey for the bee,
And bowers for the wild bird,
And love for you and me.

There are tears for the many
And pleasures for the few;
But let the world pass on, dear,
There's love for me and you.

There is care that will not leave us,
And pain that will not flee;
But on our hearth unalter'd
Sits Love--'tween you and me.

_Our_ love it ne'er was reckon'd,
Yet good it is and true,
It's _half_ the world to me, dear,
It's _all_ the world to you.

[Footnote 6: The first two stanzas by Hood, the other two contributed by Barry Cornwall at the request of Mrs. Hood, with a view to the poem being set to music.]

THE WATER LADY.[7]

[Footnote 7: Suggested, according to Hood's son, by a water-color drawing by Keats's friend Severn.]

Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!-- I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she!

I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses black, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.

I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread.

I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.

And still I staid a little more, Alas! she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine!

AUTUMN.

The Autumn is old, The sere leaves are flying;-- He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;-- Old Age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe, The harvest is heaping;-- But some that have sow'd Have no riches for reaping;-- Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning;-- Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heav'n Than when I was a boy.

THE POET'S PORTION.

What is a mine--a treasury--a dower-- A magic talisman of mighty power? A poet's wide possession of the earth. He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth Before its budding--ere the first red streaks,-- And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks.

Look--if his dawn be not as other men's! Twenty bright flushes--ere another kens The first of sunlight is abroad--he sees Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.

When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, But he will sip it first--before the lees. 'Tis his to taste rich honey,--ere the bees Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall June's rosy advent for his coronal; Before th' expectant buds upon the bough, Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow.

Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed, Before its leafy presence; for indeed Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies, And each thing perishable fades and dies, Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be Like overflows of immortality: So that what there is steep'd shall perish never, But live and bloom, and be a joy forever.

ODE TO THE MOON.

I.

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led!-- Art thou that huntress of the silver bow, Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunter never climb'd,--secure from dread? How many antique fancies have I read Of that mild presence! and how many wrought! Wondrous and bright, Upon the silver light, Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!

II.

What art thou like?--Sometimes I see thee ride A far-bound galley on its perilous way, Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray;-- Sometimes behold thee glide, Cluster'd by all thy family of stars, Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide, Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;-- Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep, To catch the young Endymion asleep,-- Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch!--

III.

Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be! Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named; And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee!-- It is too late--or thou should'st have my knee-- Too late now for the old Ephesian vows, And not divine the crescent on thy brows!-- Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon, Behind those chestnut boughs, Casting their dappled shadows at my feet; I will be grateful for that simple boon, In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, And bless thy dainty face when'er we meet.

IV.

In nights far gone,--ay, far away and dead,-- Before Care-fretted, with a lidless eye,-- I was thy wooer on my little bed, Letting the early hours of rest go by, To see thee flood the heaven with milky light, And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept; For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams,-- Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept Their burnish'd helms, and crowns, and corslets bright, Their spears, and glittering mails; And ever thou didst spill in winding streams Sparkles and midnight gleams, For fishes to new gloss their ardent scales!--

V.

Why sighs?--why creeping tears?--why clasped hands?-- Is it to count the boy's expended dow'r? That fairies since have broke their gifted wands? That young Delight, like any o'erblown flower, Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground?-- Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour, Thou art a sadder dial to old Time Than ever I have found On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow'r, Motto'd with stern and melancholy rhyme.

VI.

Why should I grieve for this?--Oh I must yearn Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory, Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn, Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry, With leaves and cluster'd fruits, and flow'rs eterne,-- (Eternal to the world, though not to me), Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be, The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon, When I am hearsed within,-- Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, That now she watches through a vapor thin.

VII.

So let it be:--Before I lived to sigh, Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills, Beautiful Orb! and so, whene'er I lie Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills. Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills, And blessëd thy fair face, O Mother mild! Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond, And blend their plighted shadows into one:-- Still smile at even on the bedded child, And close his eyelids with thy silver wand!

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled! Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie, Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed,-- Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,-- Like exhalations from the leafy mould, Look here how honor glorifies the dead, And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold!-- Such is the memory of poets old, Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate; Now they are laid under their marbles cold, And turned to clay, whereof they were create; But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd, And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate!

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

I.

Oh, when I was a tiny boy, My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind!-- No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind!

II.

A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. In those days I found A top a joyous thing;-- But now those past delights I drop, My head, alas! is all my top, And careful thoughts the string!

III.

My marbles--once my bag was stored,-- Now I must play with Elgin's lord, With Theseus for a taw! My playful horse has slipt his string, Forgotten all his capering, And harness'd to the law!

IV.

My kite--how fast and far it flew! Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew My pleasure from the sky! 'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote--my present dreams Will never soar so high!

V.

My joys are wingless all and dead; My dumps are made of more than lead;-- My flights soon find a fall; My fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a hoop, And seldom with a call!

VI.

My football's laid upon the shelf; I am a shuttlecock myself The world knocks to and fro;-- My archery is all unlearn'd, And grief against myself has turn'd My arrows and my bow!

VII.

No more in noontide sun I bask; My authorship's an endless task, My head's ne'er out of school: My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight, I have too many foes to fight, And friends grown strangely cool!

VIII.

The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake, It makes me shrink and sigh:-- On this I will not dwell and hang,-- The changeling would not feel a pang Though these should meet his eye!

IX.

No skies so blue or so serene As then;--no leaves look half so green As clothed the playground tree! All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my heart to know That change resides in me!

X.

Oh for the garb that marked the boy, The trousers made of corduroy, Well ink'd with black and red; The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill-- It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head!

XI.

Oh for the riband round the neck! The careless dogs-ears apt to deck My book and collar both! How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child, A boy of larger growth?

XII.

Oh for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue
That wash'd my sweet meals down;
The master even!--and that small Turk
That fagg'd me!--worse is now my work--
A fag for all the town!

XIII.

Oh for the lessons learned by heart! Ay, though the very birch's smart Should mark those hours again; I'd "kiss the rod," and be resign'd Beneath the stroke, and even find Some sugar in the cane!

XIV.

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The Fairy Tales in school-time read, By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun! The angel form that always walk'd In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd Exactly like Miss Brown!

XV.

The _omne bene_--Christmas come! The prize of merit, won for home-- Merit had prizes then! But now I write for days and days, For fame--a deal of empty praise, Without the silver pen!

XVI.

Then "home, sweet home!" the crowded coach-- The joyous shout--the loud approach-- The winding horns like rams'! The meeting sweet that made me thrill, The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still, No 'satis' to the 'jams'!--

XVII.

When that I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind!

BALLAD.

It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the Time of Roses,--
We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet:--
Oh, no--the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the Time of Roses,--
We pluck'd them as we pass'd.--

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud?
And when I ask'd the like of Love,
You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last.--
It was the Time of Roses,--
We plucked them as we pass'd!

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY.

I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: "Fly through the world, and I will follow thee, Only for looks that may turn back on me;

"Only for roses that your chance may throw-- Though withered--Twill wear them on my brow, To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain,-- Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again."

"Thy love before thee, I must tread behind, Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind; But trust not all her fondness, though it seem, Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream."

"Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet; But smiles betray, and music sings deceit; And words speak false;--yet, if they welcome prove, I'll be their echo, and repeat their love."

"Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last, The bitterness to come, and sweetness past; When thou art vext, then turn again, and see Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee."

FLOWERS.

I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me-- And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;-- But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.

BALLAD.

She's up and gone, the graceless girl,
And robb'd my failing years!
My blood before was thin and cold
But now 'tis turn'd to tears;--
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She might have stay'd a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill:
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

RUTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripen'd;--such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veil'd a light, That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim;-- Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:--

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.

THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.[8]

[Footnote 8: The opening Poem in the volume published by Hood in 1827, under the same title. The Poem was prefaced by the following letter to Charles Lamb:--

"My dear Friend, I thank my literary fortune that I am not reduced
like many better wits to barter dedications, for the hope or
promise of patronage, with some nominally great man; but that where
true affection points, and honest respect, I am free to gratify my
head and heart by a sincere inscription. An intimacy and dearness,
worthy of a much earlier date than our acquaintance can refer to,
direct me at once to your name; and with this acknowledgment of
your ever kind feeling towards me, I desire to record a respect and
admiration for you as a writer, which no one acquainted with our
literature, save Elia himself, will think disproportionate or
misplaced. If I had not these better reasons to govern me, I should
be guided to the same selection by your intense yet critical relish
for the works of the great Dramatist, and for that favorite play in
particular which has furnished the subject of my verses.

It is my design in the following poem to celebrate by an allegory
that immortality which Shakspeare has conferred on the fairy
mythology by his Midsummer Night's Dream. But for him, those pretty
children of our childhood would leave barely their names to our
maturer years; they belong, as the mites upon the plumb, to the
bloom of fancy, a thing generally too frail and beautiful to
withstand the rude handling of time: but the Poet has made this
most perishable part of the mind's creation equal to the most
enduring; he has so intertwined the Elfins with human sympathies,
and linked them by so many delightful associations with the
productions of nature, that they are as real to the mind's eye, as
their green magical circles to the outer sense. It would have been
a pity for such a race to go extinct, even though they were but as
the butterflies that hover about the leaves and blossoms of the
visible world. I am, my dear friend, yours most truly, T. HOOD."]

I.

'Twas in that mellow season of the year When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves Till they be gold,--and with a broader sphere The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves; When more abundantly the spider weaves, And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime;-- That forth I fared, on one of those still eves, Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time, To think how the bright months had spent their prime,

II.

So that, wherever I address'd my way, I seem'd to track the melancholy feet Of him that is the Father of Decay, And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet;-- Wherefore regretfully I made retreat To some unwasted regions of my brain, Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat, And bade that bounteous season bloom again, And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.

III.

It was a shady and sequester'd scene, Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio, Planted with his own laurels evergreen, And roses that for endless summer blow; And there were fountain springs to overflow Their marble basins,--and cool green arcades Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,-- With timid coneys cropping the green blades.

IV.

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish, Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin, Some crimson-barr'd;--and ever at a wish They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin As glass upon their backs, and then dived in, Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom; Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win My changeable regard,--for so we doom Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.

V.

And there were many birds of many dyes, From tree to tree still faring to and fro, And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes, And gorgeous pheasants with their golden glow, Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow, Beside some vocalists, without a name, That oft on fairy errands come and go, With accents magical;--and all were tame, And peckled at my hand where'er I came.

VI.

And for my sylvan company, in lieu Of Pampinea with her lively peers, Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew, All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears, For she was gracious to my childish years, And made me free of her enchanted round; Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears, And plants her court upon a verdant mound, Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound.

VII.

"Ah me," she cries, "was ever moonlight seen So clear and tender for our midnight trips? Go some one forth, and with a trump convene My lieges all!"--Away the goblin skips A pace or two apart, and deftly strips The ruddy skin from a sweet rose's cheek, Then blows the shuddering leaf between his lips, Making it utter forth a shrill small shriek, Like a fray'd bird in the gray owlet's beak.

VIII.

And lo! upon my fix'd delighted ken Appear'd the loyal Fays.--Some by degrees Crept from the primrose buds that open'd then, Ana some from bell-shaped blossoms like the bees, Some from the dewy meads, and rushy leas, Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass; Some from the rivers, others from tall trees Dropp'd, like shed blossoms, silent to the grass, Spirits and elfins small, of every class.

IX.

Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic, Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry swain; And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic, Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain, Fresh dripping from a cloud--some bloomy rain, Then circling the bright Moon, had wash'd her car, And still bedew'd it with a various stain: Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, Who bears all fairy embassies afar.

X.

But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled, Was absent, whether some distemper'd spleen Kept him and his fair mate unreconciled, Or warfare with the Gnome (whose race had been Sometime obnoxious), kept him from his queen, And made her now peruse the starry skies Prophetical, with such an absent mien; Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eyes, And oft the Moon was incensed with her sighs--

XI.

Which made the elves sport drearily, and soon Their hushing dances languish'd to a stand, Like midnight leaves, when, as the Zephyrs swoon, All on their drooping stems they sink unfann'd,-- So into silence droop'd the fairy band, To see their empress dear so pale and still, Crowding her softly round on either hand, As pale as frosty snowdrops, and as chill, To whom the sceptred dame reveals her ill.

XII.

"Alas," quoth she, "ye know our fairy lives Are leased upon the fickle faith of men; Not measured out against Fate's mortal knives, Like human gosamers,--we perish when We fade and are forgot in worldly kens-- Though poesy has thus prolong'd our date, Thanks be to the sweet Bard's auspicious pen That rescued us so long!--howbeit of late I feel some dark misgivings of our fate."

XIII.

"And this dull day my melancholy sleep Hath been so thronged with images of woe, That even now I cannot choose but weep To think this was some sad prophetic show Of future horror to befall us so, Of mortal wreck and uttermost distress, Yea, our poor empire's fall and overthrow, For this was my long vision's dreadful stress, And when I waked my trouble was not less."

XIV.

"Whenever to the clouds I tried to seek, Such leaden weight dragg'd these Icarian wings, My faithless wand was wavering and weak, And slimy toads had trespass'd in our rings-- The birds refused to sing for me--all things Disown'd their old allegiance to our spells; The rude bees prick'd me with their rebel stings; And, when I pass'd, the valley-lily's bells Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells."

XV.

"And ever on the faint and flagging air A doleful spirit with a dreary note Cried in my fearful ear, 'Prepare! prepare!' Which soon I knew came from a raven's throat, Perch'd on a cypress-bough not far remote,-- A cursed bird, too crafty to be shot, That alway cometh with his soot-black coat To make hearts dreary:--for he is a blot Upon the book of life, as well ye wot!--"

XVI.

"Wherefore some while I bribed him to be mute, With bitter acorns stuffing his foul maw, Which barely I appeased, when some fresh bruit Startled me all aheap!--and soon I saw The horridest shape that ever raised my awe,-- A monstrous giant, very huge and tall, Such as in elder times, devoid of law, With wicked might grieved the primeval ball, And this was sure the deadliest of them all!"

XVII.

"Gaunt was he as a wolf of Languedoc, With bloody jaws, and frost upon his crown So from his barren poll one hoary lock Over his wrinkled front fell far adown, Well nigh to where his frosty brows did frown Like jagged icicles at cottage eaves; And for his coronal he wore some brown And bristled ears gather'd from Ceres' sheaves, Entwined with certain sere and russet leaves."

XVIII.

"And lo! upon a mast rear'd far aloft, He bore a very bright and crescent blade, The which he waved so dreadfully, and oft, In meditative spite, that, sore dismay'd, I crept into an acorn-cup for shade; Meanwhile the horrid effigy went by: I trow his look was dreadful, for it made The trembling birds betake them to the sky, For every leaf was lifted by his sigh."

XIX.

"And ever, as he sigh'd, his foggy breath Blurr'd out the landscape like a flight of smoke: Thence knew I this was either dreary Death Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroke. Ah wretched me!"--Here, even as she spoke, The melancholy Shape came gliding in, And lean'd his back against an antique oak, Folding his wings, that were so fine and thin, They scarce were seen against the Dryad's skin.

XX.

Then what a fear seized all the little rout! Look how a flock of panick'd sheep will stare-- And huddle close--and start--and wheel about, Watching the roaming mongrel here and there,-- So did that sudden Apparition scare All close aheap those small affrighted things; Nor sought they now the safety of the air, As if some leaden spell withheld their wings; But who can fly that ancientest of Kings?

XXI.

Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear And previous sigh, beginneth to entreat, Bidding him spare, for love, her lieges dear: "Alas!" quoth she, "is there no nodding wheat Ripe for thy crooked weapon, and more meet,-- Or wither'd leaves to ravish from the tree,-- Or crumbling battlements for thy defeat? Think but what vaunting monuments there be Builded in spite and mockery of thee."

XXII.

"O fret away the fabric walls of Fame, And grind down marble Cæsars with the dust: Make tombs inscriptionless--raze each high name, And waste old armors of renown with rust: Do all of this, and thy revenge is just: Make such decays the trophies of thy prime, And check Ambition's overweening lust, That dares exterminating war with Time,-- But we are guiltless of that lofty crime."

XXIII.

"Frail feeble spirits!--the children of a dream! Leased on the sufferance of fickle men, Like motes dependent on the sunny beam, Living but in the sun's indulgent ken, And when that light withdraws, withdrawing then;-- So do we flutter in the glance of youth And fervid fancy,--and so perish when The eye of faith grows aged;--in sad truth, Feeling thy sway, O Time! though not thy tooth!"

XXIV.

"Where be those old divinities forlorn, That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream? Alas! their memories are dimm'd and torn, Like the remainder tatters of a dream: So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem;-- For us the same dark trench Oblivion delves, That holds the wastes of every human scheme. O spare us then,--and these our pretty elves,-- We soon, alas! shall perish of ourselves!"

XXV.

Now as she ended, with a sigh, to name Those old Olympians, scatter'd by the whirl Of Fortune's giddy wheel and brought to shame, Methought a scornful and malignant curl Show'd on the lips of that malicious churl, To think what noble havocs he had made; So that I fear'd he all at once would hurl The harmless fairies into endless shade,-- Howbeit he stopp'd awhile to whet his blade.

XXVI.

Pity it was to hear the elfins' wail Rise up in concert from their mingled dread, Pity it was to see them, all so pale, Gaze on the grass as for a dying bed;-- But Puck was seated on a spider's thread, That hung between two branches of a briar, And 'gan to swing and gambol, heels o'er head, Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire, For him no present grief could long inspire.

XXVII.

Meanwhile the Queen with many piteous drops, Falling like tiny sparks full fast and free, Bedews a pathway from her throne;--and stops Before the foot of her arch enemy, And with her little arms enfolds his knee, That shows more grisly from that fair embrace; But she will ne'er depart. "Alas!" quoth she, "My painful fingers I will here enlace Till I have gain'd your pity for our race."

XXVIII.

"What have we ever done to earn this grudge, And hate--(if not too humble for thy hating?)-- Look o'er our labors and our lives, and judge If there be any ills of our creating; For we are very kindly creatures, dating With nature's charities still sweet and bland:-- O think this murder worthy of debating!" Herewith she makes a signal with her hand, To beckon some one from the Fairy band.

XXIX.

Anon I saw one of those elfin things, Clad all in white like any chorister, Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings, That made soft music at each little stir, But something louder than a bee's demur Before he lights upon a bunch of broom, And thus 'gan he with Saturn to confer,-- And O his voice was sweet, touch'd with the gloom Of that sad theme that argued of his doom!

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.