Chapter XIII: Part III (1)

'Tis hard for human actions to account, Whether from reason or from impulse only-- But some internal prompting bade me mount The gloomy stairs and lonely.

Those gloomy stairs, so dark, and damp, and cold, With odors as from bones and relics carnal, Deprived of rite, and consecrated mould, The chapel vault, or charnel.

Those dreary stairs, where with the sounding stress Of ev'ry step so many echoes blended, The mind, with dark misgivings, fear'd to guess How many feet ascended.

The tempest with its spoils had drifted in, Till each unwholesome stone was darkly spotted, As thickly as the leopard's dappled skin, With leaves that rankly rotted.

The air was thick--and in the upper gloom The bat--or something in its shape--was winging; And on the wall, as chilly as a tomb, The Death's-Head moth was clinging.

That mystic moth, which, with a sense profound Of all unholy presence, augurs truly; And with a grim significance flits round The taper burning bluely.

Such omens in the place there seem'd to be, At ev'ry crooked turn, or on the landing, The straining eyeball was prepared to see Some Apparition standing.

For over all there hung a cloud of fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

Yet no portentous Shape the sight amazed; Each object plain, and tangible, and valid; But from their tarnish'd frames dark Figures gazed, And Faces spectre-pallid.

Not merely with the mimic life that lies Within the compass of Art's simulation; Their souls were looking thro' their painted eyes With awful speculation.

On ev'ry lip a speechless horror dwelt; On ev'ry brow the burthen of affliction; The old Ancestral Spirits knew and felt The House's malediction.

Such earnest woe their features overcast, They might have stirr'd, or sigh'd, or wept, or spoken; But, save the hollow moaning of the blast, The stillness was unbroken.

No other sound or stir of life was there, Except my steps in solitary clamber, From flight to flight, from humid stair to stair, From chamber into chamber.

Deserted rooms of luxury and state, That old magnificence had richly furnish'd With pictures, cabinets of ancient date, And carvings gilt and burnish'd.

Rich hangings, storied by the needle's art With scripture history, or classic fable; But all had faded, save one ragged part, Where Cain was slaying Abel.

The silent waste of mildew and the moth Had marr'd the tissue with a partial ravage; But undecaying frown'd upon the cloth Each feature stern and savage.

The sky was pale; the cloud a thing of doubt; Some hues were fresh, and some decay'd and duller; But still the BLOODY HAND shone strangely out With vehemence of color!

The BLOODY HAND that with a lurid stain Shone on the dusty floor, a dismal token, Projected from the casement's painted pane, Where all beside was broken.

The BLOODY HAND significant of crime, That glaring on the old heraldic banner, Had kept its crimson unimpair'd by time, In such a wondrous manner!

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

The Death Watch tick'd behind the panel'd oak, Inexplicable tremors shook the arras, And echoes strange and mystical awoke, The fancy to embarrass.

Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread, But thro' one gloomy entrance pointing mostly, The while some secret inspiration said, That Chamber is the Ghostly!

Across the door no gossamer festoon Swung pendulous--no web--no dusty fringes, No silky chrysalis or white cocoon About its nooks and hinges.

The spider shunn'd the interdicted room, The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banish'd, And where the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom The very midge had vanish'd.

One lonely ray that glanced upon a Bed, As if with awful aim direct and certain To show the BLOODY HAND in burning red Embroider'd on the curtain.

And yet no gory stain was on the quilt-- The pillow in its place had slowly rotted; The floor alone retain'd the trace of guilt, Those boards obscurely spotted.

Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence With mazy doubles to the grated casement-- Oh what a tale they told of fear intense, Of horror and amazement!

What human creature in the dead of night Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance? Had sought the door, the window in his flight, Striving for dear existence?

What shrieking Spirit in that bloody room Its mortal frame had violently quitted?-- Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom, A ghostly Shadow flitted.

Across the sunbeam, and along the wall, But painted on the air so very dimly, It hardly veil'd the tapestry at all, Or portrait frowning grimly.

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

THE MARY.

A SEA-SIDE SKETCH.

Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast, And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,-- Like God's own beadsman going forth to cast His net into the deep, which doth provide Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast Bosom like Charity's, for all who seek And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?

The sea is bright with morning,--but the dark Seems still to linger on his broad black sail, For it is early hoisted, like a mark For the low sun to shoot at with his pale And level beams: All round the shadowy bark The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale Swells in her canvas, till the waters show The keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.

Then look abaft--(for thou canst understand That phrase)--and there he sitteth at the stern, Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand, The hardy Fisherman. Thou may'st discern Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann'd And honest countenance that he will turn To look upon us, with a quiet gaze-- As we are passing on our several ways.

So, some ten days ago, on such a morn, The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil Amongst the finny race: 'twas when the corn Woo'd the sharp sickle, and the golden toil Summon'd all rustic hands to fill the horn Of Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoil Was at the prime, and Woodgate went to reap His harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.

His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard, His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams Of morning, for the wind. Ben's eye was stored With fishes--fishes swam in all his dreams, And all the goodly east seem'd but a hoard Of silvery fishes, that in shoals and streams Groped into the deep dusk that fill'd the sky, For him to catch in meshes of his eye.

For Ben had the true sailor's sanguine heart, And saw the future with a boy's brave thought, No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a part In his bright visions--ay, before he caught His fish, he sold them in the scaly mart, And summ'd the net proceeds. This should have brought Despair upon him when his hopes were foil'd, But though one crop was marr'd, again he toil'd;

And sow'd his seed afresh.--Many foul blights Perish'd his hard-won gains--yet he had plann'd No schemes of too extravagant delights-- No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand-- But a small humble home, and loving nights, Such as his honest heart and earnest hand Might fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy? Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.

She was the prize of many a toilsome year, And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea-- Of savings ever since the shipboy's tear Was shed for home, that lay beyond the lee;-- She was purveyor for his other dear Mary, and for the infant yet to be Fruit of their married loves. These made him dote Upon the homely beauties of his boat,

Whose pitch-black hull roll'd darkly on the wave, No gayer than one single stripe of blue Could make her swarthy sides. She seem'd a slave, A negro among boats--that only knew Hardship and rugged toil--no pennons brave Flaunted upon the mast--but oft a few Dark dripping jackets flutter'd to the air, Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.

And when she ventured for the deep, she spread A tawny sail against the sunbright sky, Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead-- But then those tawny wings were stretch'd to fly Across the wide sea desert for the bread Of babes and mothers--many an anxious eye Dwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray'r Invoked the Heavens to protect and spare.

Where is she now? The secrets of the deep Are dark and hidden from the human ken; Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweep Over the bark of the devoted Ben,-- Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep, And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men, Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy, While loungers idly ask, "Where is the Mary?"

THE LADY'S DREAM.

The lady lay in her bed,
Her couch so warm and soft,
But her sleep was restless and broken still;
For turning often and oft
From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd,
And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she startled up,
And gazed on the vacant air,
With a look of awe, as if she saw
Some dreadful phantom there--
And then in the pillow she buried her face
From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,
Her terror was so extreme;
And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt
Kept a tremulous gleam;
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried:--
"Oh me! that awful dream"!

"That weary, weary walk,
In the churchyard's dismal ground!
And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round,--
Death, death, and nothing but death,
In every sight and sound!

"And oh! those maidens young,
Who wrought in that dreary room,
With figures drooping and spectres thin,
And cheeks without a bloom;--
And the Voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride,
We haste to an early tomb!

"'For the pomp and pleasure of Pride,
We toil like Afric slaves,
And only to earn a home at last,
Where yonder cypress waves;'--
And then they pointed--I never saw
A ground so full of graves!

"And still the coffins came,
With their sorrowful trains and slow;
Coffin after coffin still,
A sad and sickening show;
From grief exempt, I never had dreamt
Of such a World of Woe!

"Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,
That grieve this earthly ball--
Disease and Hunger, and Pain, and Want,
But now I dreamt of them all!

"For the blind and the cripple were there,
And the babe that pined for bread,
And the houseless man, and the widow poor
Who begged--to bury the dead;
The naked, alas, that I might have clad,
The famish'd I might have fed!

"The sorrow I might have sooth'd,
And the unregarded tears;
For many a thronging shape was there,
From long-forgotten years,
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Who raised my childish fears!

"Each pleading look, that long ago
I scann'd with a heedless eye,
Each face was gazing as plainly there,
As when I pass'd it by:
Woe, woe for me if the past should be
Thus present when I die!

"No need of sulphurous lake,
No need of fiery coal,
But only that crowd of human kind
Who wanted pity and dole--
In everlasting retrospect--
Will wring my sinful soul!

"Alas! I have walk'd through life
Too heedless where I trod;
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm,
And fill the burial sod--
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls
Not unmark'd of God!

"I drank the richest draughts;
And ate whatever is good--
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit,
Supplied my hungry mood;
But I never remember'd the wretched ones
That starve for want of food!

"I dress'd as the noble dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,
With silk, and satin, and costly furs,
In many an ample fold;
But I never remember'd the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.

"The wounds I might have heal'd!
The human sorrow and smart!
And yet it never was in my soul
To play so ill a part:
But evil is wrought by want of Thought,
As well as want of Heart!"

She clasp'd her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream;
Large, and bitter, and fast they fell,
Remorse was so extreme;
And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame
Would dream the Lady's Dream!

THE KEY.

A MOORISH ROMANCE.

"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still
preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to
which country they still express the hopes of one day
returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient
walls of the Alhambra."--SCOTT'S _Travels in Morocco
and Algiers_.

"Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want
closing?"
SANCHO PANZA.

The Moor leans on his cushion, With the pipe between his lips; And still at frequent intervals The sweet sherbét he sips; But, spite of lulling vapor And the sober cooling cup, The spirit of the swarthy Moor Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol, On its ornamented stock, While his finger feels the trigger And is busy with the lock-- The other seeks his ataghan, And clasps its jewell'd hilt-- Oh! much of gore in days of yore That crooked blade has spilt!

His brows are knit, his eyes of jet In vivid blackness roll, And gleam with fatal flashes Like the fire-damp of the coal; His jaws are set, and through his teeth He draws a savage breath, As if about to raise the shout Of Victory or Death!

For why? the last Zebeck that came And moor'd within the Mole, Such tidings unto Tunis brought As stir his very soul-- The cruel jar of civil war, The sad and stormy reign, That blackens like a thunder cloud The sunny land of Spain!

No strife of glorious Chivalry, For honor's gain or loss, Nor yet that ancient rivalry, The Crescent with the Cross. No charge of gallant Paladins On Moslems stern and stanch; But Christians shedding Christian blood Beneath the olive's branch!

A war of horrid parricide, And brother killing brother; Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs" That worry one another. But let them bite and tear and fight, The more the Kaffers slay, The sooner Hagar's swarming sons Shall make the land a prey!

The sooner shall the Moor behold Th' Alhambra's pile again; And those who pined in Barbary Shall shout for joy in Spain-- The sooner shall the Crescent wave On dear Granada's walls: And proud Mohammed Ali sit Within his fathers halls!

"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like Up springs the swarthy Moor, And, with a wide and hasty stride, Steps o'er the marble floor; Across the hall, till from the wall, Where such quaint patterns be, With eager hand he snatches down And old and massive Key!

A massive Key of curious shape, And dark with dirt and rust, And well three weary centuries The metal might encrust! For since the King Boabdil fell Before the native stock, That ancient Key, so quaint to see, Hath never been in lock.

Brought over by the Saracens Who fled accross the main, A token of the secret hope Of going back again; From race to race, from hand to hand, From house to house it pass'd; O will it ever, ever ope The Palace gate at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-two On post and wall it hung-- Three hundred years and fifty-two A dream to old and young; But now a brighter destiny The Prophet's will accords: The time is come to scour the rust, And lubricate the wards.

For should the Moor with sword and lance At Algesiras land, Where is the bold Bernardo now Their progress to withstand? To Burgos should the Moslem come, Where is the noble Cid Five royal crowns to topple down As gallant Diaz did?

Hath Xeres any Pounder now, When other weapons fail, With club to thrash invaders rash, Like barley with a flail? Hath Seville any Perez still, To lay his clusters low, And ride with seven turbans green Around his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe see Such Heroes brave and bold, Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty, As used to shine of old! No longer to one battle cry United Spaniards run, And with their thronging spears uphold The Virgin and her Son!

From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay Internal discord dwells, And Barcelona bears the scars Of Spanish shot and shells. The fleets decline, the merchants pine For want of foreign trade; And gold is scant; and Alicante Is seal'd by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and Valor falls, Opposed by court intrigue; But treachery and traitors thrive, Upheld by foreign league; While factions seeking private ends By turns usurping reign-- Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor Exulting point to Spain!

Well may he cleanse the rusty Key With Afric sand and oil, And hope an Andalusian home Shall recompense the toil! Well may he swear the Moorish spear Through wild Castile shall sweep, And where the Catalonian sowed The Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the Cross Beneath the Arab hoof, And plant the Crescent yet again Above th' Alhambra's roof-- When those from whom St. Jago's name In chorus once arose, Are shouting Faction's battle-cries, And Spain forgets to "Close!"

Well may he swear his ataghan Shall rout the traitor swarm, And carve them into Arabesques That show no human form-- The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds Invite the savage Moor, And tempt him with the ancient Key To seek the ancient door!

THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK.

AN ALLEGORY.

There's a murmur in the air, And noise in every street-- The murmur of many tongues, The noise of numerous feet-- While round the Workhouse door The Laboring Classes flock, For why? the Overseer of the Poor Is setting the Workhouse Clock.

Who does not hear the tramp Of thousands speeding along Of either sex and various stamp, Sickly, cripple, or strong, Walking, limping, creeping From court and alley, and lane, But all in one direction sweeping Like rivers that seek the main?

Who does not see them sally From mill, and garret, and room, In lane, and court and alley, From homes in poverty's lowest valley, Furnished with shuttle and loom-- Poor slaves of Civilization's galley-- And in the road and footways rally, As if for the Day of Doom? Some, of hardly human form, Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil; Dingy with smoke and dust and oil, And smirch'd besides with vicious soil, Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.

Father, mother, and careful child, Looking as if it had never smiled-- The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan, With only the ghosts of garments on--

The Weaver, her sallow neighbor, The grim and sooty Artisan; Every soul--child, woman, or man, Who lives--or dies--by labor.

Stirr'd by an overwhelming zeal, And social impulse, a terrible throng! Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel, Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel, Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel-- Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal-- Gushing, rushing, crushing along, A very torrent of Man! Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong, Grown at last to a hurricane strong, Stop its course who can! Stop who can its onward course And irresistible moral force; O vain and idle dream! For surely as men are all akin, Whether of fair or sable skin, According to Nature's scheme, That Human Movement contains within A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.

Onward, onward, with hasty feet, They swarm--and westward still-- Masses born to drink and eat, But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat, And famishing down Cornhill! Through the Poultry--but still unfed-- Christian Charity, hang your head! Hungry--passing the Street of Bread; Thirsty--the street of Milk; Ragged--beside the Ludgate Mart, So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art, With cotton, and wool, and silk!

At last, before that door That bears so many a knock Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor, Like sheep they huddle and flock-- And would that all the Good and Wise Could see the Million of hollow eyes, With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies, Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!

Oh that the Parish Powers, Who regulate Labor's hours, The daily amount of human trial, Weariness, pain, and self-denial, Would turn from the artificial dial That striketh ten or eleven, And go, for once, by that older one That stands in the light of Nature's sun, And takes its time from Heaven!

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drown'd! drown'd!"--_Hamlet_.

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd 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 Bash 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? 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, Swit to be hurl'd-- Any where, any where 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!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd 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 Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd 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 Saviour!

THE LAY OF THE LABORER.

A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will--
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labor's rugged school.

To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard's blaze!

To Him who sends a drought
To parch the fields forlorn,
The rain to flood the meadows with mud,
The blight to blast the corn,
To Him I leave to guide
The bolt in its crooked path,
To strike the miser's rick, and show
The skies blood-red with wrath.

A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will--
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market-team to drive,
Or mend the fence by the cover side,
And leave the game alive.

Ay, only give me work,
And then you need not fear
That I shall snare his Worship's hare,
Or kill his Grace's deer;
Break into his lordship's house,
To steal the plate so rich;
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
To welter in a ditch.

Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labor calls,
No job I'll shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls;
Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.

My only claim is this,
With labor stiff and stark,
By lawful turn, my living to earn,
Between the light and dark;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer--
But all from the hand that holds the land,
And none from the overseer!

No parish money, or loaf,
No pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
No alms I ask, give me my task:
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work, and not to beg.

Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though doom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean
Instead of the fat of the earth;
To make such humble meals
As honest labor can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man!

A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will--
Whatever the tool to ply,
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge!

Who every weekly score
Docks labor's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the temple door,
But robb'd them over night.
The very shilling he hoped to save,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the new Bastille,
The Spital, or the Gaol!

STANZAS.[19]

[Footnote 19: Hood's last verses. They appeared in his Magazine in February 1845, and were thus probably composed during the previous month. In the original collection of Hood's serious poems, published after his death, they were wrongly assigned to the April of this year. Hood died on the third of May.]

Farewell, 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 mould 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-- smell the rose above the mould!

_February_ 1845.

ODE TO MR. GRAHAM,[20]

THE AERONAUT.

"Up with me!--up with me into the sky!"
WORDSWORTH--_on a Lark_.

[Footnote 20: In Hood's day Mr. Graham was one of a group of distinguished aeronauts which included Monck Mason, Hollond, Green, and others. Mr. Graham had made a memorable ascent in his Balloon in 1823.]

I.

Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise And take a bird's-eye view!--

II.

A few more whiffs of my segar And then, in Fancy's airy car, Have with thee for the skies:-- How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd Hath borne me from this little world, And all that in it lies!--

III.

Away!--away!--the bubble fills-- Farewell to earth and all its hills!-- We seem to cut the wind!-- So high we mount, so swift we go, The chimney tops are far below, The Eagle's left behind!--

IV.

Ah me! my brain begins to swim!-- The world is growing rather dim; The steeples and the trees-- My wife is getting very small! I cannot see my babe at all!-- The Dollond, if you please!--

V.

Do, Graham, let me have a quiz; Lord! what a Lilliput it is. That little world of Mogg's!-- Are those the London Docks?--that channel, The mighty Thames?--a proper kennel For that small Isle of Dogs!--

VI.

What is that seeming tea-urn there? That fairy dome, St. Paul's!--I swear, Wren must have been a Wren!-- And that small stripe?--it cannot be The City Road!--Good lack! to see The little ways of men!

VII.

Little, indeed!--my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike.--I must take Their tolls upon my trust!-- And where is mortal labor gone? Look, Graham, for a little stone Mac Adamiz'd to dust!

VIII.

Look at the horses!--less than flies!-- Oh, what a waste it was of sighs To wish to be a Mayor! What is the honor?--none at all, One's honor must be very small For such a civic chair!--

IX.

And there's Guildhall!--'tis far aloof-- Methinks, I fancy through the roof Its little guardian Gogs, Like penny dolls--a tiny show!-- Well,--I must say they're rul'd below By very little logs!--

X.

Oh, Graham! how the upper air Alters the standards of compare; One of our silken flags Would cover London all about-- Nay, then--let's even empty out Another brace of bags!

XI.

Now for a glass of bright champagne Above the clouds!--Come, let us drain A bumper as we go!-- But hold!--for God's sake do not cant The cork away--unless you want To brain your friends below.

XII.

Think! what a mob of little men Are crawling just within our ken, Like mites upon a cheese!-- Pshaw!--how the foolish sight rebukes Ambitious thoughts!--can there be _Dukes_ Of _Gloster_ such as these!--

XIII.

Oh! what is glory?--what is fame? Hark to the little mob's acclaim, 'Tis nothing but a hum!-- A few near gnats would trump as loud As all the shouting of a crowd That has so far to come!--

XIV.

Well--they are wise that choose the near, A few small buzzards in the ear, To organs ages hence!-- Ah me! how distance touches all; It makes the true look rather small, But murders poor pretence

XV.

"The world recedes!--it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes--my ears With buzzing noises ring!"-- A fig for Southey's Laureat lore!"-- What's Rogers here?--Who cares for Moore That hears the Angels sing!--"

XVI.

A fig for earth, and all its minions!-- We are above the world's opinions, Graham! we'll have our own!-- Look what a vantage height we've got!-- Now--_do_ you think Sir Walter Scott Is such a Great Unknown?

XVII.

Speak up!--or hath he hid his name To crawl thro' "subways" unto fame, Like Williams of Cornhill?-- Speak up, my lad!--when men run small We'll show what's little in them all, Receive it how they will!--

XVIII.

Think now of Irving!--shall he preach The princes down,--shall he impeach The potent and the rich, Merely on ethic stilts,--and I Not moralize at two mile high The true didactic pitch!

XIX.

Come:--what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? Is Gifford such a Gulliver In Lilliput's Review, That like Colossus he should stride Certain small brazen inches wide For poets to pass through?

XX.

Look down! the world is but a spot. Now say--Is Blackwood's _low_ or not, For all the Scottish tone? It shall not weigh us here--not where The sandy burden's lost in air-- Our lading--where is't flown?

XXI.

Now,--like you Croly's verse indeed-- In heaven--where one cannot read The "Warren" on a wall? What think you here of that man's fame? Tho' Jerdan magnified his name, To me 'tis very small!

XXII.

And, truly, is there such a spell In those three letters, L. E. L., To witch a world with song? On clouds the Byron did not sit, Yet dar'd on Shakspeare's head to spit, And say the world was wrong!

XXIII.

And shall not we? Let's think aloud! Thus being couch'd upon a cloud, Graham, we'll have our eyes! We felt the great when we were less, But we'll retort on littleness Now we are in the skies.

XXIV.

O Graham, Graham, how I blame The bastard blush,--the petty shame, That used to fret me quite,-- The little sores I cover'd then, No sores on earth, nor sorrows when The world is out of sight!

XXV.

_My_ name is Tims.--I am the man That North's unseen diminish'd clan So scurvily abused! I am the very P. A. Z. The London's Lion's small pin's head So often hath refused!

XXVI.

Campbell--(you cannot see him here)-- Hath scorn'd my _lays_:--do his appear Such great eggs from the sky?-- And Longman, and his lengthy Co. Long, only, in a little Row, Have thrust my poems by!

XXVII.

What else?--I'm poor, and much beset With damn'd small duns--that is--in debt Some grains of golden dust! But only worth, above, is worth.-- What's all the credit of the earth? An inch of cloth on trust?

XXVIII.

What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man! Nay, worlds of wealth?--Oh, if you can Spy out,--the _Golden Ball_! Sure as we rose, all money sank: What's gold or silver now?--the Bank Is gone--the 'Change and all!

XXIX.

What's all the ground-rent of the globe?-- Oh, Graham, it would worry Job To hear its landlords prate! But after this survey, I think I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink From men of large estate!

XXX.

And less, still less, will I submit To poor mean acres' worth of wit-- I that have heaven's span-- I that like Shakspeare's self may dream Beyond the very clouds, and seem An Universal Man!

XXXI.

Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds! Like Birds of Paradise the clouds Are winging on the wind! But what is grander than their range? More lovely than their sunset change?-- The free creative mind!

XXXII.

Well! the Adults' School's in the air! The greatest men are lesson'd there As well as the Lessee! Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small Behold the greatest stage of all, How humbled they would be!

XXXIII.

"Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em, To see themselves as others see 'em," 'Twould much abate their fuss! If they could think that from the iskies They are as little in our eyes As they can think of us!

XXXIV.

Of us! are we gone out of sight? Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite! Lost to the tiny town! Beyond the Eagle's ken--the grope Of Dollond's longest telescope! Graham! we're going down!

XXXV.

Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opes The airy valve!--the gas elopes-- Down goes our bright Balloon!-- Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell The lower world! Graham, farewell, Man of the silken moon!

XXXVI.

The earth is close! the City nears-- Like a burnt paper it appears, Studded with tiny sparks! Methinks I hear the distant rout Of coaches rumbling all about-- We're close above the Parks!

XXXVII.

I hear the watchmen on their beats, Hawking the hour about the streets. Lord! what a cruel jar It is upon the earth to light! Well--there's the finish of our flight! I've smoked my last segar!

A _FRIENDLY_ ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY _IN_ NEWGATE.[21]

"Sermons in stones."--_As You Like It._
"Out! out! damned spot!"--_Macbeth._

[Footnote 21: Elizabeth Fry had set up her school for the children in Newgate as early as 1817. Moll Brazen, Suky Tawdry, Jenny Diver, and the rest, are names borrowed from Gay's _Beggars' Opera_.]

I.

I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name! It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing In daily act round Charity's great flame-- I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing, Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim You make to Christianity,--professing Love, and good _works_--of course you buy of Barton, Beside the young _Fry's_ bookseller, Friend Darton!

II.

I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute-- Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport-- I should have said, that _wear_, the sober suit Shap'd like a court dress--but for heaven's court. I like your sisters too,--sweet Rachel's fruit-- Protestant nuns! I like their stiff support Of virtue--and I like to see them clad With such a difference--just like good from bad!

III.

I like the sober colors--not the wet; Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow-- Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet-- In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go-- The others are a chaste, severer set, In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go-- They're moral _standards_, to know Christians by-- In short, they are your _colors_, Mrs. Fry!

IV.

As for the naughty tinges of the prism-- Crimson's the cruel uniform of war-- Blue--hue of brimstone! minds no catechism; And green is young and gay--not noted for Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or Olive--and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess; And yellow is a convict by its dress!

V.

They're all the devil's liveries, that men And women wear in servitude to sin-- But how will they come off, poor motleys, when Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in The Evil presence? You and I know, then, How all the party colors will begin To part--the _Pit_tite hues will sadden there, Whereas the _Foxite_ shades will all show fair!

VI.

Witness their goodly labors one by one! _Russet_ makes garments for the needy poor-- _Dove-color_ preaches love to all--and _dun_ Calls every day at Charity's street door-- _Brown_ studies scripture, and bids woman shun All gaudy furnishing--_olive_ doth pour Oil into wounds: and _drab_ and _slate_ supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

VII.

Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor! When all persuasions in your praises blend-- The Methodist's creed and cry are, _Fry_ forever! No--I will be your friend--and, like a friend, Point out your very worst defect--Nay, never Start at that word! But I _must_ ask you why You keep your school _in_ Newgate, Mrs. Fry?

VIII.

Top well I know the price our mother Eve Paid for _her_ schooling: but must all her daughters Commit a petty larceny, and thieve-- Pay down a crime for _"entrance"_ to your _"quarters"_? Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread and waters! Oh, tho' it cost you rent--(and rooms run high) Keep your school _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

IX.

O save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd! Set up your mounted sign _without_ the gate-- And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd! 'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate! Nay, if you would not have your labors foil'd, Take it _inclining_ tow'rds a virtuous state, Not prostrate and laid flat--else, woman meek! The _upright_ pencil will but hop and shriek!

X.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,-- To bring sobriety to life again, Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,-- To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain,-- To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her; To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!

XI.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw-- To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach She made in manners--to write heaven's own law On hearts of granite.--Nay, how hard to preach, In cells, that are not memory's--to draw The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!

XII.

In vain you teach them baby-work within: 'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime; 'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin-- Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time-- It is too late for scouring to begin When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime Is worn away, and nothing sound remains; You'll fret the fabric out before the stains!

XIII.

I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry! I like your cookery in every way; I like your shrove-tide service and supply; I like to hear your sweet _Pandeans_ play; I like the pity in your full-brimm'd eye; I like your carriage, and your silken gray, Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching; But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.

XIV.

Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets. O, come abroad into the wholesome air, And take your moral place, before Sin seats Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt's To dress them in the pan, but do not try To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!

XV.

Put on your decent bonnet, and come out! Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools In jail--but at the _Porch_! hinting, no doubt, That Vice should have a lesson in the rules Before 'twas whipt by law.--O come about, Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate Street, But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat!

XVI.

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolor; Teach her it is not virtue to pursue Ruin of blue, or any other color; Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue, Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar; Teach her that "flooring Charleys" is a game Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.

XVII.

O come and teach our children--that ar'n't _ours_-- That heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way, Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours Children, like Time--or rather they both prey On youth together--meanwhile Newgate low'rs Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day, To shut them out from any more blue sky: Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!

XVIII.

You are not nice--go into their retreats, And make them Quakers, if you will.--'Twere best They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans _pleats_; That they had hats _with_ brims,--that they were drest In garbs without _lappels_--than shame the streets With so much raggedness.--You may invest Much cash this way--but it will cost its price, To give a good, round, real _cheque_ to Vice!

XIX.

In brief,--Oh teach the child its moral rote, Not _in_ the way from which 'twill not depart,-- But _out_--out--out! Oh, bid it walk remote! And if the skies are clos'd against the smart, Ev'n let him wear the single-breasted coat, For that ensureth singleness of heart.-- Do what you will, his every want supply, _Keep_ him--but _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ.,[22]

M.P. FOR GALWAY.

"_Martin_ in this has proved himself a very good man!"
--_Boxiana_.

[Footnote 22: The well-known Humanitarian, M. P. for Galway, the author of "Martin's Act" for the protection of animals from ill-treatment, and one of the founders of the noble society having the same object. He died in 1834.]

I.

How many sing of wars,
Of Greek and Trojan jars--
The butcheries of men!
The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!"
Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill;
But no one sings the man
That, like a pelican,
Nourishes Pity with his tender _Bill_!

II.

Thou Wilberforce of hacks!
Of whites as well as blacks,
Pyebald and dapple gray,
Chestnut and bay--
No poet's eulogy thy name adorns!
But oxen, from the fens,
Sheep--in their pens,
Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns!
Thou art sung on brutal pipes!
Drovers may curse thee,
Knackers asperse thee,
And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes;
But the old horse neighs thee,
And zebras praise thee,--
Asses, I mean--that have as many stripes!

III.

Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,-- Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air! Bullocks don't wear _Oxide_ of iron! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the _courser_ of the two-- Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!-- O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds--(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)--when the clown uplifts His hands against the sparrow's nest, to _grab_ it,-- He shall not harm the MARTINS and the _Swifts_!

IV.

Ah! when Dean Swift was _quick_, how he enhanc'd The horse!--and humbled biped man like Plato! But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd-- Gone backward in the world--and not advanc'd,-- Remember Cato! Swift was the horse's champion--not the King's, Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus--would he were thrown! He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things! Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!--let it debar men From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse-- Look at the ancients' _Muse_! Look at their _Carmen_!

V.

O, Martin I how thine eyes--
That one would think had put aside its lashes,--
That can't bear gashes
Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy
That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane,--
For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual,
Or some man painted in a bloody vein--
Gods! is there no _Horse-spital_!
That such raw shows must sicken the humane!
Sure Mr. Whittle
Loves thee but little,
To let that poor horse linger in his _pane_!

VI.

O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses! O wipe away the national reproach-- And find a decent Vulture for their corses! And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach! Steeds that confess "the luxury of _wo_!" True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack Shall sorrow for thee,--sore with kick and blow And bloody gash--it is the Indian knack-- (Save that the savage is his own tormentor)-- Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf-- The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their griefs met in a common _Centaur_!

ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.[23]

"O breathe not his name!"--_Moore_.

[Footnote 23: After nearly eighty years it is almost pardonable to remind the reader that in the earlier days of the Waverley Novels their author was much talked of by the above title. The variety of Hood's reading, and his resource in simile, are very noticeable in this Ode. The likening of Dominie Sampson to Lamb's friend, George Dyer and the comparison of Mause Headrigg to Rae Wilson on his travels, are admirable examples.]

I.

Thou Great Unknown! I do not mean Eternity, nor Death, That vast incog! For I suppose thou hast a living breath, Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown, Thou man of fog! Parent of many children--child of none! Nobody's son! Nobody's daughter--but a parent still! Still but an ostrich parent of a batch Of orphan eggs,--left to the world to hatch Superlative Nil! A vox and nothing more,--yet not Vauxhall; A head in papers, yet without a curl! Not the Invisible Girl! No hand--but a handwriting on a wall-- A popular nonentity, Still call'd the same,--without identity! A lark, heard out of sight,-- A nothing shin'd upon,--invisibly bright, "Dark with excess of light!" Constable's literary John-a-nokes-- _The_ real Scottish wizard--and not which, Nobody--in a niche; Every one's hoax! Maybe Sir Walter Scott-- Perhaps not! Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?

II.

Thou,--whom the second-sighted never saw, The Master Fiction of fictitious history! Chief Nong-tong-paw! No mister in the world--and yet all mystery! The "tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock Lane-- A _novel_ Junius puzzling the world's brain-- A man of Magic--yet no talisman! A man of clair obscure--not he o' the moon! A star--at noon. A non-descriptus in a caravan, A private--of no corps--a northern light In a dark lantern,--Bogie in a crape-- A figure--but no shape; A vizor--and no knight; The real abstract hero of the age; The staple Stranger of the stage; A Some One made in every man's presumption, Frankenstein's monster--but instinct with gumption; Another strange state captive in the north, Constable-guarded in an iron mask-- Still let me ask, Hast thou no silver platter, No door-plate, or no card--or some such matter, To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth?

III.

Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger Of Curiosity with airy gammon! Thou mystery-monger, Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon, That people buy and can't make head or tail of it; (Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it;) Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical, That lay their proper bodies on the shelf-- Keeping thyself so truly to thyself, Thou Zimmerman made practical! Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, That, like the Nile, Hideth its source wherever it is bred, But still keeps disemboguing (Not disembroguing) Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head! Thou disembodied author--not yet dead,-- The whole world's literary Absentee! Ah! wherefore hast thou fled, Thou learned Nemo--wise to a degree, Anonymous LL.D.!

IV.

Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang That do--and inquests cannot say who did it! Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang? Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch--or hid it? Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it! I should be very loth to see thee hang! I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd, An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand. Tho' that hast newly turn'd thy private bolt on The curiosity of all invaders-- I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, Who knows a little of the _Holy Land_, Writing thy next new novel--The Crusaders!

V.

Perhaps thou wert even born To be Unknown.--Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, At Captain Coram's charitable wicket, Pinn'd to a ticket That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing The future great unmentionable being.-- Perhaps thou hast ridden A scholar poor on St. Augustine's Back, Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden; A little hoard of clever simulation, That took the town--and Constable has bidden Some hundred pounds for a continuation-- To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.

VI.

I like thy Waverley--first of thy breeding;
I like its modest "sixty years ago,"
As if it was not meant for ages' reading.
I don't like Ivanhoe,
Tho' Dymoke does--it makes him think of clattering
In iron overalls before the king
Secure from battering, to ladies flattering,
Tuning, his challenge to the gauntlet's ring--
Oh better far than all that anvil clang
It was to hear thee touch the famous string
Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang,
Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan,
Like Sagittarian Pan!

VII.

I like Guy Mannering--but not that sham son Of Brown:--I like that literary Sampson, Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson That slew the Gauger; And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major; And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, That Scottish Witch of Endor, That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, To tell a great man's fortune--or to make it!

VIII.

I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, He makes me think of Mr. Britton, I like thy Antiquary. With Ins fit on, It makes me think Who has--or had--within his garden wall, A _miniature Stone Henge_, so very small That sparrows find it difficult to sit on; And Dousterwivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; And Edie Ochiltree, that old _Blue Beggar_, Painted so cleverly, I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly! I like thy Barber--him that fir'd the _Beacon--_ But that's a tender subject now to speak on!

IX.

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy.--His very charms Fashion'd him for renown!--In sad sincerity, The man that robs or writes must have long arms, If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity! Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity, Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) Bearing the name she bore, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy! But Roys can never die--why else, in verity, Is Paris echoing with "Vive le _Roy_"! Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di Vernon, of course, shall often live again-- Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, Who can pass by Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand? There be Old Bailey Jarvies on the stand!

X.

I like thy Landlord's Tales!--I like that Idol Of love and Lammermoor--the blue-eyed maid That led to church the mounted cavalcade, And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal! Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches-- I like the family (not silver) branches That hold the tapers To light the serious legend of Montrose.-- I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapors, As if he could not walk or talk alone, Without the devil--or the Great Unknown,-- Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!

XI.