"Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last, The bitterness to come, and sweetness past; When thou art vext, then turn again, and see Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee."

FLOWERS.

I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me-- And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;-- But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.

BALLAD.

She's up and gone, the graceless girl, And robb'd my failing years!

My blood before was thin and cold But now 'tis turn'd to tears;-- My shadow falls upon my grave, So near the brink I stand, She might have stay'd a little yet, And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor, And call her on the hill: 'Tis nothing but the heron's cry, And plover's answer shrill; My child is flown on wilder wings Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine; Her meat was served on plates of gold, Her drink was rosy wine; But now she'll share the robin's food, And sup the common rill, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father's will!

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.

THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.[8]

[Footnote 8: The opening Poem in the volume published by Hood in 1827, under the same title. The Poem was prefaced by the following letter to Charles Lamb:--

"My dear Friend, I thank my literary fortune that I am not reduced like many better wits to barter dedications, for the hope or promise of patronage, with some nominally great man; but that where true affection points, and honest respect, I am free to gratify my head and heart by a sincere inscription. An intimacy and dearness, worthy of a much earlier date than our acquaintance can refer to, direct me at once to your name; and with this acknowledgment of your ever kind feeling towards me, I desire to record a respect and admiration for you as a writer, which no one acquainted with our literature, save Elia himself, will think disproportionate or misplaced. If I had not these better reasons to govern me, I should be guided to the same selection by your intense yet critical relish for the works of the great Dramatist, and for that favorite play in particular which has furnished the subject of my verses.

It is my design in the following poem to celebrate by an allegory that immortality which Shakspeare has conferred on the fairy mythology by his Midsummer Night's Dream. But for him, those pretty children of our childhood would leave barely their names to our maturer years; they belong, as the mites upon the plumb, to the bloom of fancy, a thing generally too frail and beautiful to withstand the rude handling of time: but the Poet has made this most perishable part of the mind's creation equal to the most enduring; he has so intertwined the Elfins with human sympathies, and linked them by so many delightful associations with the productions of nature, that they are as real to the mind's eye, as their green magical circles to the outer sense. It would have been a pity for such a race to go extinct, even though they were but as the butterflies that hover about the leaves and blossoms of the visible world. I am, my dear friend, yours most truly, T. HOOD."]

I.

'Twas in that mellow season of the year When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves Till they be gold,--and with a broader sphere The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves; When more abundantly the spider weaves, And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime;-- That forth I fared, on one of those still eves, Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time, To think how the bright months had spent their prime,

II.

So that, wherever I address'd my way, I seem'd to track the melancholy feet Of him that is the Father of Decay, And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet;-- Wherefore regretfully I made retreat To some unwasted regions of my brain, Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat, And bade that bounteous season bloom again, And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.

III.

It was a shady and sequester'd scene, Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio, Planted with his own laurels evergreen, And roses that for endless summer blow; And there were fountain springs to overflow Their marble basins,--and cool green arcades Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,-- With timid coneys cropping the green blades.

IV.

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish, Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin, Some crimson-barr'd;--and ever at a wish They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin As glass upon their backs, and then dived in, Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom; Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win My changeable regard,--for so we doom Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.

V.

And there were many birds of many dyes, From tree to tree still faring to and fro, And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes, And gorgeous pheasants with their golden glow, Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow, Beside some vocalists, without a name, That oft on fairy errands come and go, With accents magical;--and all were tame, And peckled at my hand where'er I came.

VI.

And for my sylvan company, in lieu Of Pampinea with her lively peers, Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew, All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears, For she was gracious to my childish years, And made me free of her enchanted round; Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears, And plants her court upon a verdant mound, Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound.

VII.

"Ah me," she cries, "was ever moonlight seen So clear and tender for our midnight trips?

Go some one forth, and with a trump convene My lieges all!"--Away the goblin skips A pace or two apart, and deftly strips The ruddy skin from a sweet rose's cheek, Then blows the shuddering leaf between his lips, Making it utter forth a shrill small shriek, Like a fray'd bird in the gray owlet's beak.

VIII.

And lo! upon my fix'd delighted ken Appear'd the loyal Fays.--Some by degrees Crept from the primrose buds that open'd then, Ana some from bell-shaped blossoms like the bees, Some from the dewy meads, and rushy leas, Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass; Some from the rivers, others from tall trees Dropp'd, like shed blossoms, silent to the grass, Spirits and elfins small, of every class.

IX.

Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic, Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry swain; And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic, Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain, Fresh dripping from a cloud--some bloomy rain, Then circling the bright Moon, had wash'd her car, And still bedew'd it with a various stain: Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, Who bears all fairy embassies afar.