Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and 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, Swit to be hurl'd-- Any where, any where Out of the world!

In she plunged 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 Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest.-- Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

THE LAY OF THE LABORER.

A spade! a rake! a hoe!

A pickaxe, or a bill!

A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will-- And here's a ready hand To ply the needful tool, And skill'd enough, by lessons rough, In Labor's rugged school.

To hedge, or dig the ditch, To lop or fell the tree, To lay the swarth on the sultry field, Or plough the stubborn lea; The harvest stack to bind, The wheaten rick to thatch, And never fear in my pouch to find The tinder or the match.

To a flaming barn or farm My fancies never roam; The fire I yearn to kindle and burn Is on the hearth of Home; Where children huddle and crouch Through dark long winter days, Where starving children huddle and crouch, To see the cheerful rays, A-glowing on the haggard cheek, And not in the haggard's blaze!

To Him who sends a drought To parch the fields forlorn, The rain to flood the meadows with mud, The blight to blast the corn, To Him I leave to guide The bolt in its crooked path, To strike the miser's rick, and show The skies blood-red with wrath.

A spade! a rake! a hoe!

A pickaxe, or a bill!

A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will-- The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash, The market-team to drive, Or mend the fence by the cover side, And leave the game alive.

Ay, only give me work, And then you need not fear That I shall snare his Worship's hare, Or kill his Grace's deer; Break into his lordship's house, To steal the plate so rich; Or leave the yeoman that had a purse To welter in a ditch.

Wherever Nature needs, Wherever Labor calls, No job I'll shirk of the hardest work, To shun the workhouse walls; Where savage laws begrudge The pauper babe its breath, And doom a wife to a widow's life, Before her partner's death.

My only claim is this, With labor stiff and stark, By lawful turn, my living to earn, Between the light and dark; My daily bread, and nightly bed, My bacon, and drop of beer-- But all from the hand that holds the land, And none from the overseer!

No parish money, or loaf, No pauper badges for me, A son of the soil, by right of toil Entitled to my fee.

No alms I ask, give me my task: Here are the arm, the leg, The strength, the sinews of a Man, To work, and not to beg.

Still one of Adam's heirs, Though doom'd by chance of birth To dress so mean, and to eat the lean Instead of the fat of the earth; To make such humble meals As honest labor can, A bone and a crust, with a grace to God, And little thanks to man!

A spade! a rake! a hoe!

A pickaxe, or a bill!

A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will-- Whatever the tool to ply, Here is a willing drudge, With muscle and limb, and woe to him Who does their pay begrudge!

Who every weekly score Docks labor's little mite, Bestows on the poor at the temple door, But robb'd them over night.

The very shilling he hoped to save, As health and morals fail, Shall visit me in the new Bastille, The Spital, or the Gaol!

STANZAS.[19]

[Footnote 19: Hood's last verses. They appeared in his Magazine in February 1845, and were thus probably composed during the previous month. In the original collection of Hood's serious poems, published after his death, they were wrongly assigned to the April of this year.

Hood died on the third of May.]

Farewell, Life! My senses swim, And the world is growing dim; Thronging shadows cloud the light, Like the advent of the night,-- Colder, colder, colder still, Upward steals a vapor chill-- Strong the earthy odor grows-- I smell the mould above the rose!

Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives!

Strength returns, and hope revives; Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn Fly like shadows at the morn,-- O'er the earth there comes a bloom-- Sunny light for sullen gloom, Warm perfume for vapor cold-- smell the rose above the mould!

_February_ 1845.

ODE TO MR. GRAHAM,[20]

THE AERONAUT.

"Up with me!--up with me into the sky!"

WORDSWORTH--_on a Lark_.

[Footnote 20: In Hood's day Mr. Graham was one of a group of distinguished aeronauts which included Monck Mason, Hollond, Green, and others. Mr. Graham had made a memorable ascent in his Balloon in 1823.]

I.

Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise And take a bird's-eye view!--

II.

A few more whiffs of my segar And then, in Fancy's airy car, Have with thee for the skies:-- How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd Hath borne me from this little world, And all that in it lies!--

III.