[Thomas Hood was the son of a bookseller, one of the firm of Vernor and Hood, of the Poultry, City of London, where he was born on the 23rd May, 1799. He was apprenticed to an engraver; but his health failing, was sent to a relation in Scotland. On his return to London, in 1821, he became subeditor of the "London Magazine," and from this time his literary avocations commenced. His collected works have enjoyed a large sale since his death, but in his lifetime he was constantly struggling with want and difficulties. He died in 1845, and was buried in Kensal Green, where a handsome monument, erected by public subscription, is placed over his remains.]
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, or 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 had she none!
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed;
Love, by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
When the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From many a 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 plung'd 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
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity,
Perishing gloomily,
Spurned by contumely,
Bold 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.
(By permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)
11.-HOHENLINDEN.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
[See p. 195.]
ON Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
"Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And
every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
12.-GINEVRA.
SAMUEL ROGERS.
[Rogers was born at Stoke Newington in 1763. He was the son of a banker, to whom he succeeded; and, inheriting a fortune to which he added largely, he lived, surrounded by all the elegancies of life, to the age of ninety-two, dying in 1853. His poems, The Pleasures of Memory" and "Italy," are pleasing and elegant, and have obtained for him a niche in the Temple of Fame.]
If thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance,
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
Its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; thro' their arched walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day. A summer sun
Sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not―
And look awhile upon a picture there.
"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
when far away.
call it
may
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As tho' she said "Beware!" Her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster.
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, tho' many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.
That by the way-it may be true or false
But don't forget the picture: and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The
young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety;
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there,
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