I Remember, I Remember

I 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,--

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then

That is so heavy now,

The 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.

Thomas Hood

No!

NO sun--no moon!

No morn--no noon!

No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--

No sky--no earthly view--

No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--

No end to any Row--

No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--

No recognitions of familiar people--

No courtesies for showing 'em--

No knowing 'em!

No traveling at all--no locomotion--

No inkling of the way--no notion--

"No go" by land or ocean--

No mail--no post--

No news from any foreign coast--

No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility--

No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member--

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--

November!

Thomas Hood

Silence

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 wide desert where no life is found,

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;

No voice is hushed--no life treads silently,

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,

That never spoke, over the idle ground:

But in green ruins, in the desolate walls

Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,

Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,

And owls, that flit continually between,

Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,

There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Thomas Hood

Ruth

SHE 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,

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, Heav'n did not mean,

Where I reap, thou shouldst but glean;

Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood

The Dream of Eugene Aram

'TWAS in the prime of summer-time

An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran and some that leapt,

Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,

And souls untouched by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there

They drave the wickets in:

Pleasantly shone the setting sun

Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,

And shouted as they ran,--

Turning to mirth all things of earth,

As only boyhood can;

But the Usher sat remote from all,

A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease:

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read

The book upon his knees!

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er

Nor ever glanced aside,

For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide:

Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the pond'rous tome,

With a fast and fervent grasp

He strained the dusky covers close,

And fixed the brazen hasp;

"Oh, God! could I so close my mind,

And clasp it with a clasp!"

Then leaping on his feet upright,

Some moody turns he took,--

Now up the mead, then down the mead,

And past a shady nook,--

And lo! he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book.

"My gentle lad, what is't you read --

Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable?"

The young boy gave an upward glance,--

"It is 'The Death of Abel.'"

The Usher took six hasty strides,

As smit with sudden pain, --

Six hasty strides beyond the place,

Then slowly back again;

And down he sat beside the lad,

And talked with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men,

Whose deeds tradition saves;

Of lonely folks cut off unseen,

And hid in sudden graves;

Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,

And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men

Shriek upward from the sod. --

Ay, how the ghostly hand will point

To show the burial clod:

And unknown facts of guilty acts

Are seen in dreams from God!

He told how murderers walk the earth

Beneath the curse of Cain, --

With crimson clouds before their eyes,

And flames about their brain:

For blood has left upon their souls

Its everlasting stain!

"And well," quoth he, "I know for truth,

Their pangs must be extreme, --

Woe, woe, unutterable woe, --

Who spill life's sacred stream!

For why, Methought last night I wrought

A murder, in a dream!

One that had never done me wrong --

A feeble man and old;

I led him to a lonely field,

The moon shone clear and cold:

Now here, said I, this man shall die,

And I will have his gold!

"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,

And one with a heavy stone,

One hurried gash with a hasty knife, --

And then the deed was done:

There was nothing lying at my foot

But lifeless flesh and bone!

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,

That could not do me ill;

And yet I feared him all the more,

For lying there so still:

There was a manhood in his look,

That murder could not kill!"

"And lo! the universal air

Seemed lit with ghastly flame;

Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes

Were looking down in blame:

I took the dead man by his hand,

And called upon his name!

"O God! it made me quake to see

Such sense within the slain!

But when I touched the lifeless clay,

The blood gushed out amain!

For every clot, a burning spot

Was scorching in my brain!

"My head was like an ardent coal,

My heart as solid ice;

My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,

Was at the Devil's price:

A dozen times I groaned: the dead

Had never groaned but twice!

"And now, from forth the frowning sky,

From the Heaven's topmost height,

I heard a voice -- the awful voice

Of the blood-avenging sprite --

'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead

And hide it from my sight!'

"I took the dreary body up,

And cast it in a stream, --

A sluggish water, black as ink,

The depth was so extreme:

My gentle boy, remember this

Is nothing but a dream!

"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,

And vanished in the pool;

Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,

And washed my forehead cool,

And sat among the urchins young,

That evening in the school.

"Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls,

And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer,

Nor join in Evening Hymn:

Like a Devil of the Pit I seemed,

'Mid holy Cherubim!

"And peace went with them, one and all,

And each calm pillow spread;

But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain

That lighted me to bed;

And drew my midnight curtains round

With fingers bloody red!

"All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep,

My fevered eyes I dared not close,

But stared aghast at Sleep:

For Sin had rendered unto her

The keys of Hell to keep!

"All night I lay in agony,

From weary chime to chime,

With one besetting horrid hint,

That racked me all the time;

A mighty yearning, like the first

Fierce impulse unto crime!

"One stern, tyrannic thought, that made

All other thoughts its slave;

Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation crave, --

Still urging me to go and see

The Dead Man in his grave!

"Heavily I rose up, as soon

As light was in the sky,

And sought the black accursèd pool

With a wild misgiving eye:

And I saw the Dead in the river-bed,

For the faithless stream was dry.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook

The dewdrop from its wing;

But I never marked its morning flight,

I never heard it sing:

For I was stooping once again

Under the horrid thing.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,

I took him up and ran;

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,

I hid the murdered man!

"And all that day I read in school,

But my thought was otherwhere;

As soon as the midday task was done,

In secret I went there:

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,

And still the corpse was bare!

"Then down I cast me on my face,

And first began to weep,

For I knew my secret then was one

That earth refused to keep:

Or land, or sea, though he should be

Ten thousand fathoms deep.

"So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,

Till blood for blood atones!

Ay, though he's buried in a cave,

And trodden down with stones,

And years have rotted off his flesh, --

The world shall see his bones!

"Oh God! that horrid, horrid dream

Besets me now awake!

Again--again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take:

And my red right hand grows raging hot,

Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay,

Will wave or mould allow;

The horrid thing pursues my soul --

It stands before me now!"

The fearful Boy looked up, and saw

Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night while gentle sleep

The urchin's eyelids kissed,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,

Through the cold and heavy mist;

And Eugene Aram walked between,

With gyves upon his wrist.

Thomas Hood

Faithless Sally Brown

YOUNG 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 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 you 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;"

"To 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 went 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 bitter 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 toll'd the bell.

Thomas Hood

The Song of the Shirt

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

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!

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 a dream!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, 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 its terrible shape,

It seems so like my own--

It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep;

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,

And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work--work--work!

My Labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread--and rags.

That shatter'd 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!

Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,

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!"

Thomas Hood

The Bridge of Sighs

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

Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonour,

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!

O, 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 hurl'd

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!

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 behaviour,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

Thomas Hood