Thomas Hood

1798-1845.

Ballad.

I.

I

t was not in the winter

Our loving lot was cast;

It was the time of roses,—

We plucked them as we passed;

II.

That churlish season never frowned

On early lovers yet:—

Oh, no—the world was newly crowned

With flowers when first we met!

III.

’T was twilight, and I bade you go,

But still you held me fast;

It was the time of roses,—

We plucked them as we passed.—

Song.

O

Lady, leave thy silken thread

And flowery tapestrie:

There ’s living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand

Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find

The daisy at thy feet.

’T is like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue—

The very rainbow showers

Have turned to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.

There ’s fairy tulips in the east,

The garden of the sun;

The very streams reflect the hues,

And blossom as they run:

While Morn opes like a crimson rose,

Still wet with pearly showers;

Then, Lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers!

I

remember, I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day,

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses, red and white,

The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday,—

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now ’t is little joy

To know I ’m farther off from heav’n

Than when I was a boy.

Ballad.

S

he ’s up and gone, the graceless Girl!

And robbed my failing years;

My blood before was thin and cold

But now ’t is turned to tears;—

My shadow falls upon my grave,

So near the brink I stand,

She might have stayed a little yet,

And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,

And call her on the hill,

’T is 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 widened 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!

Song.

I.

T

he stars are with the voyager

Wherever he may sail;

The moon is constant to her time;

The sun will never fail;

But follow, follow round the world,

The green earth and the sea;

So love is with the lover’s heart,

Wherever he may be.

II.

Wherever he may be, the stars

Must daily lose their light;

The moon will veil her in the shade;

The sun will set at night.

The sun may set, but constant love

Will shine when he ’s away;

So that dull night is never night,

And day is brighter day.