Footnotes
[582:4] See Scott, page [482].
[582:5] See Middleton, page [172].
[583:1] See Shakespeare, page [46].
THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845.
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,—
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found.
Sonnet. Silence.
We watch'd her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
The Death-Bed.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
The Death-Bed.
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 't is little joy
To know I 'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
I remember, I remember.
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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.
Ruth.
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.
Ruth.
When he is forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?
Spring it is cheery.
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid.
Ode to Melancholy.
There 's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.[584:1]
Ode to Melancholy.
But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.
The Lady's Dream.
Oh would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now,
And have a good cry!
A Table of Errata.
Straight down the crooked lane,
And all round the square.
A Plain Direction.
For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
Morning Meditations.
A man that 's fond precociously of stirring
Must be a spoon.
Morning Meditations.
Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.
Miss Kilmansegg. Her Christening.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed!
That heaven upon earth to the weary head!
Her Dream.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.
Her Dream.
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Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold.
Her Moral.
Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould.
Her Moral.
How widely its agencies vary,—
To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,—
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.
Her Moral.
Another tumble! That 's his precious nose!
Parental Ode to my Infant Son.
Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.
The Season.
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread,—
Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!
The Song of the Shirt.
O men with sisters dear,
O men with mothers and wives,
It is not linen you 're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives![585:1]
The Song of the Shirt.
Sewing at once a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.
The Song of the Shirt.
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
The Song of the Shirt.
No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief.
The Song of the Shirt.
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread.
The Song of the Shirt.
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One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.
The Bridge of Sighs.
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
The Bridge of Sighs.
Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
The Bridge of Sighs.
Even God's providence
Seeming estrang'd.
The Bridge of Sighs.
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon,
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day,
. . . . .
No road, no street, no t' other side the way,
. . . . .
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
November.
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Nor think I 'm pious when I 'm only bilious;
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious,
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.
Ode to Rae Wilson.
The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no salaam;
And dear the beaver is to him
As if it never made a dam.
All round my Hat.