"I pass, like night, from land to land; I know the man that must hear me ; "What loud uproar bursts from that door! But in the garden-bower the bride And, hark! the little vesper-bell, "O wedding-guest! this soul hath been So lonely 'twas, that God himself "Oh! sweeter than the marriage-feast, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company; "To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray; While each to his great Father bends, Old men and babes, and loving friends, "Farewell, farewell! but this I tell "He prayeth best who loveth best The mariner, whose eye is bright, - He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNIX. HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-star The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form, O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink; And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded (and the silence came), Ye icefalls! ye that from the mountain's brow And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge, - Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost; Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Is; Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845. This distinguished wit and humorist had the remarkable power of giving a pun the dignity of wit. "Eugene Aram's Dream," The Song of the Shirt," and "The Bridge of Sighs," prove his power as a poet, and give him a permanent place in our literature. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, Stitch, stitch, stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, "Work, work, work, While the cock is crowing aloof; And work, work, work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work! "Work, work, work, Till the brain begins to swim; Work, work, work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Band and gusset and seam, "O men with sisters dear! O men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch, stitch, stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A SHROUD as well as a shirt! Band and gusset and seam, Seam and gusset and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "Work, work, work, In the dull December light; And work, work, work, When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, "Oh but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh but for one short hour, A little weeping would ease my heart : My tears must stop; for every drop With fingers weary and worn, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch |