The Poetical Works of T. H. Edited, with a critical memoir by W. M. Rossetti. Illustrated by G. Doré (and A. Thompson)

Front matter

This Volume dues not at all interfere with Hood's Poems Comic or Hood's Pouts Serious. The latter contain everything in verse written bij this Author, while this Volume contains his choicest pieces ONLY. THE POETICAL WORKS or THOMAS HOOD. ■ ,- "ri zz ri . l ! V-. ■-.,, .■■ J\ -, '-■ ', . ■ . \ rj! | | s k\ .>'■'•■■_. ''.I'': , \ THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS HOOD. EDITED, WITH A CRITICAL MEMOIR, BY WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI. ILLUSTRATED BY GUSTAVE DORE. LONDON: E. MOXON, SON, & CO., DOVER STREET. CONTENTS. I'AGE Prefatory Notice. By W. M. Rossetti of Sighs >.l i The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies 4 36 Bianca's Dream. A Venetian Story Ode to Rae Wilson, Esq. 44 Ode to Melancholy 57 Lycus the Centaur. From an Unrolled Manuscript of Apollonius Curius ..... 60 The Epping Hunt . 7- Jack Hall S7 The Haunted House.

A Romance 95 Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg — Her Pedigree . Her Birth 107 no Her Christening n5 t/y VI CONTENTS. FAGS Miss Kilmansegg and Her Precious Leg, continued — Her Childhood . . . . . 119 Her Education . . . . .121 Her Accident ...... 125 Her Precious Leg ..... 130 Her Fame . . . . . 133 Her First Step ..... 136 Her Fancy Ball ..... 137 Her Dream . . . • . , . 146 Her Courtship ...... 151 Her Marriage . . . . . .155 Her Honeymoon ... . 163 Her Misery . . . . , 1 71 Her Last Will . . .- . . . 176 Her Death ...... 17S Her Moral ...... 181 The Song of the Shirt ... . . .183 The Irish Schoolmaster ..... 186 To a False Friend . . . . . 195 Ode. — Autumn ... , 195 Sonnet. — Death ...... 197 Sonnet. — Silence ...... 198 Sonnet. — " Love, I am jealous of a worthless man " . 198 Sonnet. — " Love, see thy lover humbled at thy feet " . 199 The Forsaken ...... 199 Song. — " The stars are with the voyager " . . 200 Song. — " O Lady, leave thy silken thread " . . 201 Birthday Verses ... . .

CONTENTS. VII l'AGB I Love thee 202 Lines. — " Let us make a leap, my dear" . . . 203 False Poets and True ..... 204 Fragment. — " Farewell— Farewell" . . . 204 The Two Swans. — A Fairy Tale .... 206 Stanzas to Tom Woodgate of Hastings . . . 215 Time, Plope, and Memory . . . .219 Flowers ....... 220 Ballad. — " She's up and gone " .... 220 The Two Peacocks of Bedfont .... 222 The Departure of Summer .... 229 A Legend of Navarre ..... 233 Elegy on David Laing, Esq. .... 239 Sonnet Written in a Volume of Shakspeare . . 241 A Retrospective Review . . . . . 241 The Lady's Dream ..... 246 Death's Ramble ...... 249 Ballad. — " It was not in the winter " . . . 252 Autumn ....... 252 To Hope ....... 253 To Celia ....... 255 The Sea of Death. A Fragment .... 256 To an Absentee . . . . . .257 The Deathbed ...... 258 To my Wife ...... 258 Song. — " There is dew for the flow'ret " . . . 259 I Remember, I Remember .... 260 The Poet's Portion .....

Part II. O

very gloomy is the House of Woe, Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling, With all the dark solemnities which show That Death is in the dwelling. O very, very dreary is the room Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles, But, smitten by the common stroke of doom, The Corpse lies on the trestles ! But House of Woe, and hearse, and sable pall, The narrow home of the departed mortal, Ne'er look'd so gloomy as that Ghostly Hall, With its deserted portal ! The centipede along the threshold crept, The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle, And in its winding-sheet the maggot slept, At every nook and angle. The keyhole lodged the earwig and her brood, The emmets of the steps had old possession, And marched in search of their diurnal food In undisturbed procession. As undisturb'd as the prehensile cell Of moth or maggot, or the spider's tissue, For never foot upon that threshold fell, To enter or to issue.

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted ! Howbeit, the door I push'd — or so I dream'd — Which slowly, slowly gaped, — the hinges creaking With such a rusty eloquence, it seemed That Time himself was*speaking. But Time was dumb within that Mansion old, Or left his tale to the heraldic banners, That hung from the corroded walls, and told Of former men and manners : — ■ Those tatter'd flags, that with the open'd door, Seem'd the old wave of battle to remember, While fallen fragments danced upon the floor, Like dead leaves in December. The startled bats slew out, — bird after bird, The screech-owl overhead began to flutter, And seemed to mock the cry that she had heard Some dying victim utter !

A shriek that echo'd from the joisted roof, And up the stair, and further still and further, Till in some ringing chamber far aloof It ceased its tale of murther ! Meanwhile the rusty armour rattled round, The banner shudder'd, and the ragged streamer ; All things the horrid tenor of the sound Acknowledged with a tremor. The antlers, where the helmet hung, and belt, Stirr'd as the tempest stirs the forest branches, Or as the stag had trembled when he felt The blood-hound at his haunches. The window jingled in its crumbled frame, And thro' its many gaps of destitution Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came, Like those of dissolution. The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball, Touched by some impulse occult or mechanic ; And nameless beetles ran along the wall In universal panic. The subtle spider, that from overhead Hung like a spy on human guilt and error, Suddenly turn'd and up its slender thread Ran with a nimble terror. r The very stains and fractures on the wall Assuming features solemn and terrific, Hinted some Tragedy of that old Hall, Lock'd up in hieroglyphic.

Some tale that might, perchance, have solved the doubt. Wherefore amongst those slags so dull and livid, The banner of the Bloody Hand shone out So ominously vivid. Some key to that inscrutable appeal, Which made the very frame of Nature quiver ; And every thrilling nerve and fibre feel So ague-like a shiver. For over all there hung a cloud of fear ; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted ! If but a rat had linger'd in the house, To lure the thought into a social channel ! But not a rat remain'd, or tiny mouse, To squeak behind the panel. Huge drops rolled down the walls, as if they wept ; And where the cricket used to chirp so shrilly, The toad was squatting, and the lizard crept On that damp hearth and chilly. For years no cheerful blaze had sparkled there, Or glanced on coat of buff or knightly metal ; The slug was crawling on the vacant chair, — The snail upon the settle.

The floor was redolent of mould and must, The fungus in the rotten seams had quicken'd ; While on the oaken table coats of dust Perennially had thicken'd. THE HAUNTED HOUSE. No mark of leathern jack or metal can, No cup — no horn — no hospitable token, — All social ties between that board and Man Had long ago been broken. There was so foul a rumour in the air, The shadow of a presence so atrocious ; No human creature could have feasted there, Even the most ferocious. For over all there hung a cloud of fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted !