: The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood by Hood Thomas Rossetti William Michael Author Of Introduction Etc - English poetry; Hood Thomas 1799-1845

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HOOD'S POETICAL WORKS.

TO HOPE.

Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily; For grief is dark, and care is sharp, And life wears on so wearily. Oh! take thy harp! Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do, When, all youth's sunny season long, I sat and listened to thy song, And yet 'twas ever, ever new, With magic in its heaven-tuned string-- The future bliss thy constant theme. Oh! then each little woe took wing Away, like phantoms of a dream; As if each sound That flutter'd round, Had floated over Lethe's stream!

Perchance the strings will sound less clear, That long have lain neglected by In sorrow's misty atmosphere; It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken Such joyous notes so brisk and high; But are its golden chords all broken? Are there not some, though weak and low, To play a lullaby to woe? But thou canst sing of love no more, For Celia show'd that dream was vain; And many a fancied bliss is o'er, That comes not e'en in dreams again. Alas! alas! How pleasures pass, And leave thee now no subject, save The peace and bliss beyond the grave!

Then be thy flight among the skies: Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing!

Another life-spring there adorns Another youth--without the dread Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns Is here for manhood's aching head. Oh! there are realms of welcome day, A world where tears are wiped away! Then be thy flight among the skies: Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing!

THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.

Summer is gone on swallows' wings, And Earth has buried all her flowers: No more the lark,--the linnet--sings, But Silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain Of Winter ere he comes again,-- There is in woods a solemn sound Of hollow warnings whisper'd round, As Echo in her deep recess For once had turn'd a prophetess. Shuddering Autumn stops to list, And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, With clouded face, and hazel eyes That quench themselves, and hide in mist.

Yes, Summer's gone like pageant bright; Its glorious days of golden light Are gone--the mimic suns that quiver, Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river. Gone the sweetly-scented breeze That spoke in music to the trees; Gone--for damp and chilly breath, As if fresh blown o'er marble seas, Or newly from the lungs of Death. Gone its virgin roses' blushes, Warm as when Aurora rushes Freshly from the God's embrace, With all her shame upon her face. Old Time hath laid them in the mould; Sure he is blind as well as old, Whose hand relentless never spares Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs! Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now From where so blushing-blest they tarried Under the hawthorn's blossom-bough, Gone; for Day and Night are married. All the light of love is fled:-- Alas! that negro breasts should hide The lips that were so rosy red, At morning and at even-tide!

Delightful Summer! then adieu Till thou shalt visit us anew: But who without regretful sigh Can say, adieu, and see thee fly? Not he that e'er hath felt thy pow'r. His joy expanding like a flow'r, That cometh after rain and snow, Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow:-- Not he that fled from Babel-strife To the green sabbath-land of life, To dodge dull Care 'mid clustered trees, And cool his forehead in the breeze,-- Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance, Shook from its wings a weight of grief, And perch'd upon an aspen leaf, For every breath to make it dance.

Farewell!--on wings of sombre stain, That blacken in the last blue skies, Thou fly'st; but thou wilt come again On the gay wings of butterflies. Spring at thy approach will sprout Her new Corinthian beauties out, Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds; Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers, And April smiles to sunny hours, Bright days shall be, and gentle nights Full of soft breath and echo-lights, As if the god of sun-time kept His eyes half-open while he slept. Roses shall be where roses were, Not shadows, but reality; As if they never perished there, But slept in immortality: Nature shall thrill with new delight, And Time's relumined river run Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright, As if its source were in the sun!

But say, hath Winter then no charms? Is there no joy, no gladness warms His aged heart? no happy wiles To cheat the hoary one to smiles? Onward he comes--the cruel North Pours his furious whirlwind forth Before him--and we breathe the breath Of famish'd bears that howl to death. Onward he comes from the rocks that blanch O'er solid streams that never flow: His tears all ice, his locks all snow, Just crept from some huge avalanche-- A thing half-breathing and half-warm, As if one spark began to glow Within some statue's marble form, Or pilgrim stiffened in the storm. Oh! will not Mirth's light arrows fail To pierce that frozen coat of mail? Oh! will not joy but strive in vain To light up those glazed eyes again?

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