Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. Then go forth-earth and sky To you are tributary; joys are spread Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread! The Fairies of the Caldon-Low.-A Midsummer Legend. 'And where have you been, my Mary, And what did you see, my Mary, 'I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill? 'I heard the drops of the water made, And the green corn ears to fill.' 'Oh, tell me all, my Mary- 'Then take me on your knee, mother, And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?' 'I'll tell you all, my mother But let me have my way! And some they played with the water, "And this," they said, "shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill; For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, And some they seized the little winds, And each put a horn into his mouth, "And there," said they," the merry winds go, Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank Oh, the poor, blind old widow Though she has been blind so long, And some they brought the brown lintseed, Oh, the poor, lame weaver, How will he laugh outright, And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin- I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And an apron for her mother!" And with that I could not help but laugh, And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, But, as I came down from the hill-top, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go! And I peeped into the widow's field; And down by the weaver's croft I stole, With the good news in his eye! Now, this is all I heard, mother, So, prithee, make my bed, mother, Now that posture is not right, Ha! he is not half asleep; You shall have it, pigmy brother! : THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS HOOD has come before the world chiefly as a writer of comic poetry; but several compositions of a different nature show that he is also capable of shining in the paths of the imaginative, the serious, and the romantic. He was born in London in 1798, the son of a member of the well-known bookselling firm of Vernor, Hood, and Sharp. The poet was bred in the profession of an engraver, which he in time forsook, when he found that he could command the attention of the public by his whimsical verses. His first publication was a volume entitled Whims and Oddities, which attained great popularity soon after, he commenced The Comic Annual, the success of which was not less remarkable. A novel entitled Tylney Hall, published in 1834, was a variation of the poet's labours, which the public did not encourage him to repeat. The comic poetry of Hood was usually set off by drawings executed in a peculiar style by himself, and to which they were in some degree indebted for their success. The most original feature of these productions was the use which the author made of puns a figure usually too contemptible for literature, but which, in Hood's hands, became the basis of genuine humour, and often of the purest pathos. Of the serious poems of our author, his Plea for the Midsummer Fairies, and The Dream of Eugene Aram, are the most popular. Song. It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet; Oh no!-the world was newly crowned "Twas twilight, and I bade you go, We plucked them as we passed! What else could peer my glowing cheek, And when I asked the like of love, And oped it to the dainty core, It was the time of roses We plucked them as we passed! Town and Country. Oh well may poets make a fuss What joy have I in June's return? And turns me dust to dust.' My sun his daily course renews Oh! but to hear the milkmaid blithe; The dewy meads among! My grass is of that sort-alas! Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet! For meadow-buds I get a whiff The turtle made at Cuff's. That marks the Bell and Crown. Where are ye, birds, that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gaily sing Or mourn in thickets deep My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchman is my Philomel, My blackbird is a sweep! My rills are only puddle-drains Of calimanco-dyes! Sweet are the little brooks that run Singing in soothing tones: And skin-not shear-the lambs. The pipe whereon, in olden day, Sweetly-here soundeth not; But merely breathes unwholesome fumes; The rank weed-' piping hot.' All rural things are vilely mocked, With objects hard to bear: An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bowers, Wherein the zephyr wons? No pastoral scenes procure me peace; No cot set round with trees: No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks; With brokers-not with bees. Oh! well may poets make a fuss My heart is all at pant to rest A Parental Ode to my Son, aged Three Years and Five Months. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire?) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble-that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamblike frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown,) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) The Dream of Eugene Aram. [The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem.] "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, Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin; To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they coursed about, As only boyhood can: But the usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; So he leaned his head on his hands, and read Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome; Then leaping on his feet upright, Now up the mead, then down the mead, And lo he saw a little boy That pored upon a book! 72 '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 glanceIt is the Death of Abel.' The usher took six hasty strides, And, long since then, of bloody men, And hid in sudden graves; And how the sprites of injured men Are seen in dreams from God! He told how murderers walked the earth 'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme Wo, wo, unutterable wo Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought last night I wrought A murder in a dream! One that had never done me wrongA 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, Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, And lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame- Oh God, it made me quake to see 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, I heard a voice-the awful voice I took the dreary body up, Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, That evening in the school! Oh heaven, to think of their white souls, I could not share in childish prayer, And peace went with them one and all, And drew my midnight curtains round, All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That racked me all the timeA 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 craveStill urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave! Heavily I rose up--as soon As light was in the skyAnd sought the black accursed 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 For I was stooping once again 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 other where ! As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare! Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Oh God, that horrid, horrid dream And my red right hand grows raging hot, 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 That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin 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. ALFRED TENNYSON. ALFRED TENNYSON, son of a Lincolnshire clergyman, and educated at Trinity college, Cambridge, published two volumes of poetry in 1830 and 1832. They contain various pieces, domestic and romantic -some imaginative and richly-coloured-the diction being choice and fine, but occasionally injured by affected expressions. Among our secondary living poets, there is no one of whom higher expectations may be formed than Mr Tennyson; for, with his luxuriant fancy and musical versification, he is often highly original in his thoughts and conceptions. He reminds us at times of Leigh Hunt, but his spirit is more searching, as well as expansive. Mr Tennyson has perhaps more to unlearn than to learn in the art of poetry, and it may be hoped that he will shake off his conceits, and take a bolder flight than he has yet attempted. Love and Death. What time the mighty moon was gathering light, And talking to himself, first met his sight: Love wept, and spread his sheeny vans for flight; Life eminent creates the shade of death; The Sleeping Palace. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns More like a picture seemeth all Here sits the butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his: Her lips are severed as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fixed upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, And beaker brimmed with noble wine. Grave faces gathered in a ring. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows High up the topmost palace-spire. |