"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!"

XXII.

"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And wash'd my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school."

XXIII.

"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 seem'd, 'Mid holy Cherubim!"

XXIV.

"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!"

XXV.

"All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep: For Sin had render'd unto her The keys of Hell to keep!"

XXVI.

"All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time; A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime!"

XXVII.

"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!"

XXVIII.

"Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And 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."

XXIX.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing."

XXX.

"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 murder'd man!"

XXXI.

"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!"

XXXII.

"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."

XXXIII.

"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!"

XXXIV.

"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."

XXXV.

"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 look'd up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow.

XXXVI.

That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between.

With gyves upon his wrist.

SONNET.

FOR THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY.

No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day, When every loyal lover tasks his wit His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay, And to his mistress dear his hopes convey.

Rather thou knowest I would still outrun All calendars with Love's,--whose date alway Thy bright eyes govern better than the Sun,-- For with thy favor was my life begun; And still I reckon on from smiles to smiles, And not by summers, for I thrive on none But those thy cheerful countenance complies: Oh! if it be to choose and call thee mine, Love, thou art every day my Valentine.

THE DEATH-BED.[10]

[Footnote 10: _The Englishman's Magazine_, August 1831. This magazine was a venture of Edward Moxon, the publisher, but had a career of only seven months. It is memorable, however, for including, besides the above and various papers by Charles Lamb, poetical contributions from Tennyson and Arthur Hallam, and also for containing the review by the latter of Tennyson's first volume of poems, published in 1830. The beautiful stanzas of Hood's appear here, as far as I have discovered, for the first time. The date of their composition remains unfixed.

Hood's son was under the impression that they were written on the death of one of his father's sisters, but supplied no evidence bearing on the question.]