Thomas Hood

 

1799 - 1845

 

Born in London, the son of a Scottish bookseller. Following poor health he was sent to Dundee in 1815 to recuperate with his father's relatives where he wrote for the local newspaper. returning to London in 1818. In 1821, after a period working as an engraver, he was appointed sub-editor of the London Magazine where he met Hazlitt, Lamb and John Reynolds. In 1829 he became editor of The Gem in 1829 and published works by Tennyson, among others.

It would be easy to dismiss Hood as a lesser poet of the Romantic Era and early Victorian age, but his contribution was far greater than most realise. Mostly known during his lifetime for his comic writings, many self-published, it is his more serious writings that are best known today. His major serious work was The Song of the Shirt which was published anonymously in Punch in 1843. It was a powerful attack on worker exploitation and was immediately reprinted in the London Times and other newspapers across Europe. It was dramatised by Mark Lemon as The Sempstress, was printed on broadsheets, cotton handkerchiefs and was highly praised by many of the literary establishment, including Charles Dickens. It is hard to imagine today of the impact that a single poem could have.

Of the others here, I Remember, I Remember is a dark reflection on his childhood from the perspective of maturity. It was to inspire another great poet, Philip Larkin, to write a darker still poem of the same title reflecting on his own childhood.

For the sake of balance, I also include some of the celebrated comic poems such as Faithless Sally Brown, enjoy the puns!.

 

 

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!"

 

 

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.

 

Ruth

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.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripen’d;—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 veil’d 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.

 

Faithless Sally Brown

An old ballad.

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.

 

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 blessàd 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 Music’s 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 bless’d one lover’s heart
   Has broken many more!

 

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,
Oping 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 noonday,
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 bees have 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 drownàd 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 for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

 

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 hush’d—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 hyæna 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.

 

Death

It is not death, that sometime in a sight
   This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
   In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
   That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow;
   That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite
Be lapp’d in alien clay and laid below;
It is not death to know this—but to know
   That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
   So duly and so oft—and when grass waves
Over the pass’d-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men.

 

The Death-bed

We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,
   Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
   Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem’d to speak,
   So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
   To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
   Our fears our hopes belied—
We thought her dying when she slept,
   And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
   And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed—she had
   Another morn than ours.