No More Learning

Fleet are the vessels they bring as well, and many the treasures.
This is a marvel, too, whose glory never may perish,-
Even the Delian maids, attendant on archer Apollo.
When they first have uttered in hymns their praise of Apollo,
Next is Leto's turn, and Artemis, hurler of arrows.
Then they remember the heroes of ancient days, and the women,
Singing their hymn; and the tribes of mortal men are enchanted.
Speech of all mankind, and even their castanets' rattle,
They can mimic, and every man would say that he heard them
Speak his speech; so fairly and well is their minstrelsy fitted.
Come, O Apollo, be thou, together with Artemis, gracious.
Greeting unto you all; and be ye of me hereafter
Mindful, when some other of men that on earth have abiding
Hither may come, an outworn stranger, and ask you the question,
"O ye maidens, and who for you is the sweetest of minstrels,
Whoso hither doth come, in whom ye most are delighted? »
Then do ye all, I pray, with one voice answer and tell him,
"Blind is the man, and in Chios abounding in crags is his dwelling;
He it is whose songs shall all be supreme in the future. »
Yet will I not cease from hymning the archer Apollo,
Lord of the silvern bow, who is offspring of fair-tressed Leto.
Translation of William C. Lawton.
HYMN TO DEMETER
F'
IRST Demeter I sing, that fair-tressed reverend goddess,
Her, and her daughter the slender-ankled, whom once Aidoneus
Stole,- for wide-eyed Zeus, who is lord of the thunder, per-
mitted.
Quite unaware was the mother, Fruitgiver, the Bringer of Springtime.
She, Persephone, played with Oceanos's deep-bosomed daughters,
Plucking the blossoms,― the beautiful violets, roses, and crocus,
Iris, and hyacinth too, that grew in the flowery meadow.
Earth, by command of Zeus, and to please All-welcoming Pluto,
Caused narcissus to grow, as a lure for the lily-faced maiden.
Wonderful was it in beauty. Amazement on all who beheld it
Fell, both mortal men and gods whose life is eternal.
Out of a single root it had grown with clusters an hundred.
All wide Heaven above was filled with delight at the fragrance;
Earth was laughing as well, and the briny swell of the waters.
She, in her wonder, to pluck that beautiful plaything extended
Both her hands; - but that moment the wide-wayed earth underneath
her


## p. 7587 (#397) ###########################################

THE HOMERIC HYMNS
7587
Yawned, in the Nysian plain; and the monarch, Receiver of all men,
Many-named son of Kronos, arose, with his horses immortal,—
Seized her against her will, and upon his chariot golden
Bore her lamenting away;-and the hills re-echoed her outcry.
Kronos's son she invoked, most mighty and noble, her father.
None among mortal men, nor the gods whose life is eternal,
Heard her voice,-not even the fruitful Nymphs of the marshland.
Only Perses's daughter, the tender-hearted, had heard her,
Hecatè, she of the gleaming coronet, out of her cavern;
Heard her on Kronides calling, her father: he from immortals
Far was sitting aloof, in a fane where many petitions
Came to him, mingled with sacrifices abundant of mortals.
So, at the bidding of Zeus was reluctant Persephone stolen,
Forced by her father's brother, the Many-named, offspring of Kronos,
Lord and Receiver of all mankind,-with his horses immortal.
While Persephone yet could look upon star-studded heaven,
Gaze on the earth underneath, and the swarming waters unresting,
Seeing the light, so long she had hope that her glorious mother
Yet would descry her, or some from the race of the gods ever-living.
So long hope consoled her courageous spirit in trouble.
Loudly the crests of the mountains and depths of the water resounded
Unto her deathless voice; and her royal mother did hear her.
Keen was the pain at Demeter's heart, and about her ambrosial
Tresses her tender hands were rending her beautiful wimple.
Dusky the garment was that she cast upon both her shoulders.
Like to a bird she darted, and over the lands and the waters
Sped as if frenzied: but yet there was no one willing to tell her
Truthfully, neither of gods nor of human folk who are mortal;
None of the birds would come unto her as a messenger faithful.
So throughout nine days over earth imperial Deo,
Holding in both her hands her flaming torches, was roaming.
Never ambrosia, nor ever delightsome nectar she tasted;
Never she bathed with water her body,- so bitter her sorrow.
Yet when upon her there came for the tenth time glimmering morn-
ing,
Hecatè met her, a shining light in her hands, and addrest her,
Speaking unto her thus, and bringing her news of her daughter:-
"Royal Demeter, our Bountiful Lady, the Giver of Springtime,
Who among mortal men, or who of the gods ever-living,
Brought this grief to your heart by stealing Persephone from you?
Truly her voice did I hear, but yet with my eyes I beheld not
Who committed the deed. Thus all have I truthfully told you. "


## p. 7588 (#398) ###########################################

7588
THE HOMERIC HYMNS
45
So did Hecatè speak; and in words replied not the other,
Fair-tressed Rheia's daughter, but hastily with her she darted,
Hurrying forward, and still in her hands were the glimmering torches.
So they to Helios came, who is watcher of gods and of mortals.
Standing in front of his steeds, she, divine among goddesses, asked
him: :-
"Helios, you as a goddess should hold me in honor, if ever
Either by word or deed I have cheered your heart and your spirit.
I thro' boundless ether have heard the lament of a maiden,
Even of her that I bore, fair blossom, of glorious beauty;
Heard her cry of distress, tho' not with my eyes I beheld her.
Yet do you, who descry all earth and the billowy waters,
Out of the ether resplendent with keen glance watchfully downward
Gazing, report to me truly my child, if perchance you behold her.
Tell me who among men, or of gods, whose life is unending,
Seized, and away from her mother has carried, the maiden unwilling. "
So did she speak; and the son of Hyperion answered her saying:-
"Fair-tressed Rheia's daughter, our royal lady Demeter,
You shall know: for indeed I pity and greatly revere you,
Seeing you grieved for your child, for the graceful Persephone. No
one
Else, save cloud-wrapt Zeus, is to blame among all the immortals.
He as a blooming bride has given your daughter to Hades,
Brother to him and to you; so down to the shadowy darkness
Hades, spite of her cries, has dragged her away with his horses.
Yet, O goddess, abate your grief: it befits you in no wise
Thus insatiate anger to cherish. Nor yet an unworthy
Husband among the immortals is Hades, monarch of all men,
Child of the selfsame father and mother with you; and his honors
Fell to his share, when first amid three was the universe parted.
Still amid those he reigns whose rule unto him was allotted. "
Speaking thus he aroused his steeds; and they at his bidding
Nimbly as long-winged birds with the rushing chariot hastened.
Over Demeter's heart grief fiercer and keener descended.
Then in her anger at Kronos's son, who is lord of the storm-cloud,
Leaving the gathering-place of the gods and spacious Olympus,
Unto the cities of men and the fertile fields she departed.
Translation of William C. Lawton.


## p. 7589 (#399) ###########################################

7589
THOMAS HOOD
(1799-1845)
BY LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE
o THOMAS HOOD, more truly than to any other English poet,
belongs the epithet that the Germans love to bestow on
Richter, "the only one. " As a humorist, as a master of
grimace and extravagance, as a thinker, and as a poet, he was no
man's imitator; and the title which he gave his comic miscellany,
"Hood's Own," might have stood as a sort of trade-mark for the
unforced production of his fine genius. Far
too little of this astonishing production was
unforced, however; for Hood, in wretched
health, had wife and weans to feed and
clothe. All his life he drove the pen as
his immortal seamstress her needle. Yet
even his perfunctory jests found prosper-
ity in the ear of the public, while his least
spontaneous poems showed care and con-
science.

This patient, hopeful, undiscouraged poet
of democracy was born in London in the
last year of the eighteenth century. His
father was an engraver, who, determined
that the boy should have a stable and rep-
utable lot, apprenticed him to a mercantile house. What sort of con-
tented, inconspicuous citizen a thrifty, shopkeeping Hood might have.
turned out, was not to be known; for he broke down in health,
was sent off to Scotland for a couple of years, and when he came
back to London at the age of eighteen, tried his hand first at engrav-
ing, to which his strength was unequal, and then, almost accidentally,
at writing. He soon became sub-editor of the London Magazine; a
position poor in pay, but rich in experience and friendships. Charles
Lamb, among other men, took a strong liking to him; discovering a
mental kinship, perhaps, in the delicate, fun-loving, melancholy humor.
of this whimsical new-comer into journalistic literature.
THOMAS HOOD
From the London Magazine Hood went to the New Monthly; and
one after another he edited the Comic Annual, Hood's Own, and


## p. 7590 (#400) ###########################################

7590
THOMAS HOOD
lastly Hood's Magazine, established not many months before his early
death in 1845. Thus, for twenty-four years he was never out of har-
ness; the four years that he spent on the Continent, to economize,
being crowded with work for various periodicals. He had begun to
write in the vein of the Elizabethans, with his 'Hero and Leander'
after the manner of Venus and Adonis,' and his 'Plea of the Mid-
summer Fairies' after the 'Fairy Queen. ' Before 1830 he had written
also what Dobson calls "the galloping anapæsts" of "Lycus the Cen-
taur,' the perfect ballad of 'Fair Ines,' the 'Dream of Eugene Aram'
with its ghastly fascination, many fine sonnets, and not a few of the
most beloved of his lyrics, as I remember, I remember,' 'Farewell,
Life,' 'Ruth,' and 'The Death-Bed. '
These poems, therefore, and others like them, may be taken as
the expression of his true genius. But in the very beginning he had
lavished his extraordinary and original comicalities on the London
public, and these things that public would have, and no other,—or at
least it would pay for no other. The fountain of his fun was really
inexhaustible, since he drew from it without ceasing for a quarter of
a century. But at intervals in later years the waters ran thin and
flat, without sparkle or effervescence. Yet no humorist ever wrote
so much with so large a remainder of excellence. His puns are not
mere verbal sleight of hand, but brilliant verbal wit. Not even
Charles Lamb has so mastered the subtlety and the imagery of the
pun. Hood goes beyond the analogy of sound and catches the analogy
of meaning. But leaving out of the question this inimitable control
of words, his drollery is still unrivaled, because it is the whimsical
expression, not of the trifler but of the thinker, even of the moralist,
and always of the imaginative poet. In the whirl of his absurdities
suddenly appears a glimpse of everlasting truth. The merry-andrew
rattles his hoop and grins, but in his jests there is a hint of whole-
some tears. Our most authoritative critic speaks of the "imaginative
mirth" with which, for example, the poem of Miss Kilmansegg' is
charged from beginning to end, making it, as a sustained piece of
metrical humor, absolutely unique. The Moral, like the whole his
tory indeed, is not more an example of the "curious felicity" which
Horace himself might have found in Hood's workmanship, than of
the moralist's turn for preaching:-
-
"Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled:


## p. 7591 (#401) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7591
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the church-yard mold;
Price of many a crime untold:
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Good or bad a thousandfold!
How widely its agencies vary:
To save to ruin- to curse- to bless
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamped with the image of Good Queen Bess
And now of a Bloody Mary. "
'The Tale of the Trumpet,' also, another marvel of verbal wit,
is filled with a solemn moral power; while even a poem like the
'Address to Mrs. Fry,' which is pure fun, has an admirable ethical
conclusion.
So much was it a matter of course, however, to consider Hood a
comic writer, that Thackeray, when he deplored the waste of that
rare genius on joke-cracking, and declared his passion to be a quality
much higher than his humor, found nobody to agree with him. But
the world is gradually conceding that pathos is the crowning gift of
the author of the 'Lay of the Laborer,' the 'Song of the Shirt,' and
above all, of the Bridge of Sighs. ' That achievement, said Thack-
eray, "was his Corunna, his Heights of Abraham: sickly, weak,
wounded, he fell in the full blaze and fame of that great victory. "
The Song of the Shirt' appeared anonymously in Punch for Christ-
mas 1843. No poem ever written was so instantly "learned by heart"
by a whole people. In palaces, princesses dropped over it ineffectual
tears, and street singers chanted the bitter chorus in the darkest slums
of East London. It has the dignity of tragedy, and it makes a single,
commonplace, unheroic figure stand for the universal. The 'Bridge of
Sighs' was written for Hood's Magazine but a little while before the
poet's death. It is because to the tragedy of this is added an element
of the sublime that it becomes the greater work.
Always ill, suffering, poor, in debt, anxious for those dependent
on him, Hood was always cheerful, courageous, and manfully inde-
pendent. In his family life he was happy, in friendships he was rich,
and he treated sickness and poverty as mere accidents of time. There
never lived a sweeter nature. Over his grave in Kensal Green Cem-
etery stands a monument raised by the eager contributions of his
countrymen,― princes, gentlemen, scholars, statesmen, millionaires,
artisans, laborers, seamstresses, dressmakers, shop-girls; and on it is
inscribed the epitaph he himself chose "He sang the Song of the
Shirt. "
―
Lucin Richert Bankle
Gilbert


## p. 7592 (#402) ###########################################

7592
THOMAS HOOD
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN
AN OLD BALLAD
YOUNG
NG Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's-maid.
But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.
The boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.
"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head-
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be. "
So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A-coming to herself.
"And is he gone? and is he gone? "
She cried and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water-side,
And see him out of sight. "
A waterman came up to her:
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea. "
"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow;"
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said, Gee woe!
Says he, "They've only taken him.
To the Tender-ship, you see:"


## p. 7593 (#403) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7593
"The Tender-ship! " cried Sally Brown,-
"What a hard-ship that must be!
"Oh! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But oh! I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.
"Alas! I was not born beneath
The Virgin and the Scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales. "
Now Ben had sailed to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.
But when he called on Sally Brown
To see how she got on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow! "
Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing 'All's Well,'
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turned- and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell;
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton tolled the bell.


## p. 7594 (#404) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7594
AN IRONIC REQUIEM
From A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry›
ELL hast thou said, departed Burke,-
All chivalrous romantic work
Is ended now and past!
That iron age, which some have thought
Of mettle rather overwrought,
Is now all over-cast.
WELL
Ay! where are those heroic knights
Of old those armadillo wights
Who wore the plated vest?
Great Charlemagne and all his peers
Are cold-enjoying with their spears
An everlasting rest.
The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound;
So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such éclat!
Oh, Time has plucked the plumy brow!
And none engage at turneys now
But those that go to law!
Where are those old and feudal clans,
Their pikes, and bills, and partisans;
Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs?
A battle was a battle then,
A breathing piece of work; but men
Fight now with powder puffs!
The curtal-axe is out of date!
The good old cross-bow bends to Fate;
'Tis gone, the archer's craft!
No tough arm bends the springing yew,
And jolly draymen ride, in lieu
Of Death, upon the shaft.
In cavils when will cavaliers
Set ringing helmets by the ears,
And scatter plumes about?
Or blood-if they are in the vein?
That tap will never run again-
Alas, the casque is out!
-
•


## p. 7595 (#405) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7595
No iron crackling now is scored
By dint of battle-axe or sword,
To find a vital place;
Though certain doctors still pretend,
Awhile, before they kill a friend,
To labor through his case!
Farewell, then, ancient men of might
Crusader, errant squire, and knight!
Our coats and customs soften;
To rise would only make you weep:
Sleep on in rusty iron, sleep
As in a safety coffin!
A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND
FIVE MONTHS
HOU happy, happy elf!
THO
(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear! )
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin-
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin! )
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air-
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair! )
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire! )
―
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink! )
Thou cherub-but of earth;
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth —
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail! )
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny-
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose! )


## p. 7596 (#406) ###########################################

7596
THOMAS HOOD
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope! )
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint-
(Where did he learn that squint? )
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove! )
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best? )
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan! )
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,—
(He's got a knife! )
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick-
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick! )
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk-
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown! )
-
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose! )
Balmy, and breathing music like the south
(He really brings my heart into my mouth! )
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star
(I wish that window had an iron bar! )
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove –
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above! )
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH
E
VEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;


## p. 7597 (#407) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7597
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas upblazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, "No go! "
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking grumble, "Drat that cat! "
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;
But nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears - what faith is man's! Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!
RUTH
-
S
HE stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasped 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 ripened;-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:


## p. 7598 (#408) ###########################################

7598
THOMAS HOOD
But long lashes veiled 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, heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean:
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
FAIR INES
H, SAW ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest;
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
O"
O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivaled bright;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier
Who rode so gayly by thy side,
And whispered thee so near! -
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;


## p. 7599 (#409) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore; —
It would have been a beauteous dream,
- If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines!
She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,
And shouting of the throng;
But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before;
Alas for pleasure on the sea
And sorrow on the shore!
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more!
A
A SONG: FOR MUSIC
LAKE, and a fairy boat
To sail in the moonlight clear,-
And merrily we would float
From the dragons that watch us here!
Thy gown shall be snow-white silk,
And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk,
Should twine with thy raven curls!
Red rubies should deck thy hands,
And diamonds should be thy dower;
But fairies have broken their wands,
And wishing has lost its power!
7599


## p. 7600 (#410) ###########################################

7600
THOMAS HOOD
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
"Drowned! drowned! »- HAMLET
Ο
NE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care:
Fashioned 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 dishonor,
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?


## p. 7601 (#411) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7601
XIII--476
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!
Oh, 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 hurled
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!


## p. 7602 (#412) ###########################################

7602
THOMAS HOOD
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care:
Fashioned 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
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest-
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
WITH
Plying her needle and thread:
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt"!
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work-work-work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!


## p. 7603 (#413) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7603
It's oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
« Work work work!
Till the brain begins to swim;
-
-
Work-work-work!
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in my dream!
"O men, with sisters dear!
O men, with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
―
Stitch stitch stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt!
"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own—
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep:
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work-work-work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread, and rags;
A shattered roof, and this naked floor,
A table, a broken chair,
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work-work-work!
From weary chime to chime;
Work-work-work,
As prisoners work for crime!


## p. 7604 (#414) ###########################################

7604
THOMAS HOOD
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,—
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand!
"Work-work — work,
In the dull December light;
And work-work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh, but for one short hour!
A respite, however brief! —
No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread! "
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread:
Stitch stitch - stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich! -
She sang this "Song of the Shirt. "


## p. 7605 (#415) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7605
C
ODE TO MELANCHOLY
OME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the inward thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn:
True honor's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have watered since the world was born.
The world! -it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy
Makes all things weep with me.
Come, let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heaven black with misery.
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we?
No sorrow ever chokes their throats-
Except sweet nightingale; for she
Was born to pain our hearts the more,
With her sad melody.
Why shines the sun, except that he
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide,
And pensive shades for Melancholy,
When all the earth is bright beside?
Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave:
Mirth shall not win us back again,
Whilst man is made of his own grave,
And fairest clouds but gilded rain!
I saw my mother in her shroud;
Her cheek was cold and very pale:
And ever since I've looked on all
As creatures doomed to fail!
Why do buds ope, except to die?
Aye, let us watch the roses wither,
And think of our loves' cheeks;


## p. 7606 (#416) ###########################################

7606
THOMAS HOOD
And oh, how quickly time doth fly
To bring death's winter hither!
Minutes, hours, days, and weeks,
Months, years, and ages, shrink to naught—
An age is but a thought!
Aye, let us think of him awhile
That, with a coffin for a boat,
Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat;
And for our table choose a tomb.
There's dark enough in any skull
To charge with black a raven plume;
And for the saddest funeral thoughts
A winding-sheet hath ample room,
Where Death, with his keen-pointed style,
Hath writ the common doom.
How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom,
And o'er the dead lets fall its dew,
As if in tears it wept for them-
The many human families
That sleep around its stem!
How cold the dead have made these stones,
With natural drops kept ever wet!
Lo! here the best, the worst, the world
Doth now remember or forget,
Are in one common ruin hurled;
And love and hate are calmly met,-
The loveliest eyes that ever shone,
The fairest hands, and locks of jet.
Is 't not enough to vex our souls
And fill our eyes, that we have set
Our love upon a rose's leaf,
Our hearts upon a violet?
Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet;
And sometimes, at their swift decay
Beforehand we must fret.
The roses bud and bloom again;
But love may haunt the grave of love,
And watch the mold, in vain.
Oh clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine,
And do not take my tears amiss;
For tears must flow to wash away
A thought that shows so stern as this.


## p. 7607 (#417) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7607
Forgive if somewhile I forget,
In woe to come, the present bliss.
As frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis,
Even so the dark and bright will kiss,
The sunniest things throw sternest shade;
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid.
Now let us with a spell invoke
The full-orbed moon to grieve our eyes;
Not bright, not bright-but, with a cloud
Lapped all about her, let her rise
All pale and dim, as if from rest
The ghost of the late buried sun
Had crept into the skies.
The moon! she is the source of sighs,
The very face to make us sad,
If but to think in other times
The same calm, quiet look she had,
As if the world held nothing base,
Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad-
The same fair light that shone in streams,
The fairy lamp that charmed the lad;
For so it is, with spent delights
She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad.
—
All things are touched with melancholy,
Born of the secret soul's mistrust
To feel her fair ethereal wings
Weighed down with vile, degraded dust.
Even the bright extremes of joy
Bring on conclusions of disgust –
Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.
Oh give her, then, her tribute just,
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy!
There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.


## p. 7608 (#418) ###########################################

7608
THOMAS HOOD
THE DEATH-BED
E WATCHED her breathing through the night,
WⓇ Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied:
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed. - she had
Another morn than ours.
-
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER
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 —
That tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,


## p. 7609 (#419) ###########################################

THOMAS HOOD
7609
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 heaven
Than when I was a boy.
STANZAS
F
AREWELL, Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night.
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill;
Strong the earthy odor grows -
I smell the mold above the rose!
Welcome, Life! the spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn.
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold-
I smell the rose above the mold!


## p. 7610 (#420) ###########################################

7610
PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT
(1581-1647)
IETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT, who has been called "the father
of Dutch poetry," was born March 16th, 1581, at Amsterdam,
Holland, where his father was burgomaster. He received a
liberal education at home, and traveled extensively in France, Italy,
and Germany. Subsequently he studied literature and law at the
University of Leyden. In 1609 he was appointed to the influential
position of bailiff of Muiden, and from this time on for many years
he spent the summer months at the castle of Muiden, a short dis-
tance from Amsterdam.
Hooft's position in the literary history of
Holland is due not only to his own writings,
but also to the unmistakable influence that
he exerted upon the whole literary develop-
ment of the time. As bailiff at Muiden,
whither he brought his young wife the year
after his appointment, he kept open house,
and gathered about him the flower of Hol-
land in politics, in art, literature, and learn-
ing, known since in Dutch history as the
"Muiden circle," who were held together
by Hooft's own attractive personality and
social position as well as by his literary
talents. Some of the most notable names of
Holland are connected with Hooft at Muiden. Vondel and Coster
were there together, and in the long list of other names are to be
found Grotius, Brederoo, Vos, and Ansloo, Constantin Huygens, and
before all, Anna and Maria Tesselschade, the daughters of Roemer
Visscher. Hooft was twice married. For his life of Henry IV. of
France, written in 1626, he was ennobled by the French king. He
died on the 25th of May, 1647, at The Hague, whither he had gone
to attend a royal funeral.
Hooft's literary career began early. In his sixteenth year he had
joined, according to the custom of the day, one of the rhetorical
"chambers," and wrote at this time several minor poems and the
tragedy 'Achilles and Polyxena,' his first important literary work.
His numerous lyrics, a series of dramas, and his historical works

PIETER HOOFT


## p. 7611 (#421) ###########################################

PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT
7611
show that his official duties did not seriously interfere with his lit-
erary pursuits. His plays, besides the one already noticed, are the
tragedies 'Geraardt van Velzen,' Theseus and Ariadne,' and 'Baeto';
the pastoral Granida'; and the comedy 'Warenaer,' after the 'Aulu-
laria' of Plautus.
(
Hooft's first historical work was the life of Henry IV. , already
mentioned. This and a translation of Tacitus consciously served,
however, but as a preparation for his greatest work, the 'History
of the Netherlands' (Nederlandsche Historien), which was written
during the years 1628-38, and finally published in 1642. He expended
on this work his very best powers. A vast deal of time was spent
upon the careful collection and study of sources, and upon the purity
of the vocabulary and the literary form, which received extraordinary
praise from his contemporaries, and have made this work a classic
in the literature of Holland. He had planned a continuation of the
history, but died before it was completed.
Hooft's best poetical work was lyrical. His dramas are altogether
lacking in originality, and not one of them has kept the stage. It is
as a historian that his fame is most firmly founded.
ANACREONTIC
TH
HREE long years have o'erwhelmed me in sadness,
Since the sun veiled his vision of gladness:
Sorrow be banished, for sorrow is dreary;
Sorrow and gloom but outweary the weary.
In my heart I perceive the day breaking;
I cannot resist its awaking.
On my brow a new sun is arisen,
And bright is its glance o'er my prison;
Gayly and grandly it sparkles about me,
Flowingly shines it within and without me:
Why, why should dejection disarm me,
My fears or my fancies alarm me?
Laughing lightly, lovely life, in the heaven
Of thy forehead is virtue engraven;
Thy red coral lips, when they breathe an assenting,
To me are a dawn which Apollo is painting;
Thy eyes drive the gloom, with their sparkling,
Where sadness and folly sit darkling.
Lovely eyes, then the beauties have bound them,
And scattered their shadows around them;


## p. 7612 (#422) ###########################################

7612
PIETER CORNELISZOON HOOFT
Stars, in whose twinklings the virtues and graces,
Sweetness and meekness, all hold their high places:
But the brightest of stars is but twilight
Compared with that beautiful eye-light.
Fragrant mouth, all the flowers spring is wreathing
Are dull to the sweets thou art breathing;
The charms of thy song might summon the spirit
To sit on the ears all-enchanted to hear it:
What marvel, then, if in its kisses
My soul is o'erwhelmed with sweet blisses?
Oh how blest, how divine the employment!
How heavenly, how high the enjoyment!
Delicate lips and soft amorous glances,
Kindling and quenching and fanning sweet fancies,
Now, now to my heart's centre rushing,
And now through my veins they are gushing.
Dazzling eyes, that but laugh at our ruin,
Nor think of the wrongs ye are doing,
Fountains of gladness and beacons of glory,
How do ye scatter the dark mists before ye!
Can my weakness your tyranny bridle ?
Oh no! all resistance is idle.
Ah! my soul-ah! my soul is submitted;
Thy lips-thy sweet lips-they are fitted
With a kiss to dissolve into joy and affection
The dreamings of hope and of gay recollection:
And sure never triumph was purer;
And sure never triumph was surer.
I am bound to your beauty completely,
I am fettered and fastened so sweetly;
And blessed are the tones, and the looks, and the mind
too,
Which my senses control, and my heart is inclined to;
While virtue, the holiest and brightest,
Has fastened love's fetters the tightest.
Translated by Sir John Bowring.


## p. 7613 (#423) ###########################################

7613
THEODORE HOOK
(1788-1841)
T
T IS impossible to draw the figure of Theodore Hook without
his cap and bells. In London society he filled the place of
the court jester; and the extraordinary vogue of his books
in the London world of letters, art, and fashion was due doubtless to
his personal agreeableness. He had a remarkable gift for improvis-
ing verse and music, and for throwing off farces, burlesques, and jeux
d'esprit, which made him an invaluable guest, and gave him a famous
name.