Read Ebook: The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood by Hood Thomas Rossetti William Michael Author Of Introduction Etc

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Ebook has 2601 lines and 162067 words, and 53 pages

"I have a lily in the bloom at home," Quoth one, "and by the blessed Sabbath day I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come And read a lesson upon vain array;-- And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say-- Making my reverence,--'Ladies, an you please, King Solomon's not half so fine as these,'"

Then her meek partner, who has nearly run His earthly course,--"Nay, Goody, let your text Grow in the garden.--We have only one-- Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next? Summer will come again, and summer sun, And lilies too,--but I were sorely vext To mar my garden, and cut short the blow Of the last lily I may live to grow,"

"The last!" quoth she, "and though the last it were-- Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair, And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd And curtsey'd to!--last Sabbath after pray'r, I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud If they were angels--but I made him know God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow!"

So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng, Hand-coupled urchins in restrain?d talk, And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong, And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk, And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along, And gentle peasant clad in buff and green, Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene;

And blushing maiden--modestly array'd In spotless white,--still conscious of the glass; And she, the lonely widow, that hath made A sable covenant with grief,--alas! She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade, While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass, Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress Her boy,--so rosy!--and so fatherless!

Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near The fair white temple, to the timely call Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear.-- Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere Of the low porch, and heav'n has won them all, --Saying those two, that turn aside and pass, In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass.

Ah me! to see their silken manors trail'd In purple luxuries--with restless gold,-- Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'd In blotted black,--over the heapy mould Panting wave-wantonly! They never quail'd How the warm vanity abused the cold; Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone Sadly uplooking through transparent stone:

But swept their dwellings with unquiet light, Shocking the awful presence of the dead; Where gracious natures would their eyes benight, Nor wear their being with a lip too red, Nor move too rudely in the summer bright Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread, Meting it into steps, with inward breath, In very pity to bereaved death.

Now in the church, time-sober'd minds resign To solemn pray'r, and the loud chaunted hymn,-- With glowing picturings of joys divine Painting the mist-light where the roof is dim; But youth looks upward to the window shine, Warming with rose and purple and the swim Of gold, as if thought-tinted by the stains Of gorgeous light through many-color'd panes;

Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath Enrobed his angels,--and with absent eyes Hearing of Heav'n, and its directed path, Thoughtful of slippers--and the glorious skies Clouding with satin,--till the preacher's wrath Consumes his pity, and he glows and cries With a deep voice that trembles in its might, And earnest eyes grow eloquent in light:

"Oh, that the vacant eye would learn to look On very beauty, and the heart embrace True loveliness, and from this holy book Drink the warm-breathing tenderness and grace Of love indeed! Oh, that the young soul took Its virgin passion from the glorious face Of fair religion, and address'd its strife, To win the riches of eternal life!"

"Doth the vain heart love glory that is none, And the poor excellence of vain attire? Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun, The visible ruler of the starry quire, Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run, Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire; And the faint soul down-darkens into night, And dies a burning martyrdom to light."

"Yet suns shall perish--stars shall fade away-- Day into darkness--darkness into death-- Death into silence; the warm light of day, The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breath Of even--all shall wither and decay, Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath The touch of morn--or bubbles of rich dyes That break and vanish in the aching eyes."

They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shed Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pour Their sin to earth,--and with low drooping head Receive the solemn blessing, and implore Its grace--then soberly with chasten'd tread, They meekly press towards the gusty door With humbled eyes that go to graze upon The lowly grass--like him of Babylon.

The lowly grass!--O water-constant mind! Fast-ebbing holiness!--soon-fading grace Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind Through the low porch had wash'd it from the face For ever!--How they lift their eyes to find Old vanities!--Pride wins the very place Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow!

And lo! with eager looks they seek the way Of old temptation at the lowly gate; To feast on feathers, and on vain array, And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state Of jewel-sprinkled locks,--But where are they, The graceless haughty ones that used to wait With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen'd eye?-- None challenge the old homage bending by.

In vain they look for the ungracious bloom Of rich apparel where it glow'd before,-- For Vanity has faded all to gloom, And lofty Pride has stiffen'd to the core, For impious Life to tremble at its doom,-- Set for a warning token evermore, Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond'ring eyes.

The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn, But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair; The solemn clerk goes lavender'd and shorn Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair;-- And ancient lips that pucker'd up in scorn, Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray'r; And in the garden-plot, from day to day, The lily blooms its long white life away.

And where two haughty maidens used to be, In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly, Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod; There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see Two sombre Peacocks. Age, with sapient nod Marking the spot, still tarries to declare How they once lived, and wherefore they are there.

HYMN TO THE SUN.

Giver of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, The kings and sages Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy genial rays!

King of the tuneful lyre, Still poets' hymns to thee belong; Though lips are cold Whereon of old Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song!

Lord of the dreadful bow, None triumph now for Python's death; But thou dost save From hungry grave The life that hangs upon a summer breath.

Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

God of the Delphic fame, No more thou listenest to hymns sublime; But they will leave On winds at eve, A solemn echo to the end of time.

MIDNIGHT.

Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide The mighty city under thy full tide; Making a silent palace for old Sleep, Like his own temple under the hush'd deep, Where all the busy day he doth abide, And forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide

His dusky wings, whence the cold waters sweep! How peacefully the living millions lie! Lull'd unto death beneath his poppy spells; There is no breath--no living stir--no cry No tread of foot--no song--no music-call-- Only the sound of melancholy bells-- The voice of Time--survivor of them all!

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,-- A tender infant with its curtain'd eye, Breathing as it would neither live nor die With that unchanging countenance of sleep! As if its silent dream, serene and deep, Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie With no more life than roses--just to keep The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. O blossom boy! so calm is thy repose. So sweet a compromise of life and death, 'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose For memory to stain their inward leaf, Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief.

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd No eyes could wake so beautiful as they: Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay, I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd Of dimples:--for those parted lips so seem'd, I never thought a smile could sweetlier play, Nor that so graceful life could chase away Thy graceful death,--till those blue eyes upbeam'd. Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drown'd And roses bloom more rosily for joy, And odorous silence ripens into sound, And fingers move to sound.--All-beauteous boy! How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove, If not more lovely thou art more like Love!

TO FANCY.

FAIR INES.

O 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 turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd 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 gaily by thy side, And whisper'd 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; 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 shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Musics 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!

TO A FALSE FRIEND.

Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again. Friends, if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain: I only know I loved you once, I only know I loved in vain; Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again!

Then farewell to heart and hand! I would our hands had never met: Even the outward form of love Must be resign'd with some regret. Friends, we still might seem to be, If I my wrong could e'er forget; Our hands have join'd but not our hearts: I would our hands had never met!

ODE.

AUTUMN.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun, Opening the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds?--Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noon-day, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,--and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?-- Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity. The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey been save stored The sweets of summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, With the last leaves for a love-rosary; Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drown?d past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far-away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair; She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;-- There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,--and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-- Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

SONNET.

SILENCE.

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