Thomas Hood (थॉमस हुड)

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh,This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight.

That sometime these bright stars, that now reply,In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night.

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow.

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite,Be lapped in alien clay and laid below.

It is not death to know this,--but to know,That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves.

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go,So duly and so oft,--and when grass waves.

Over the past-away, there may be then,No resurrection in the minds of men.

Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe,Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling.

With all the dark solemnities that show,That Death is in the dwelling!.

Oh, 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 looked 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 has old possession.

And marched in search of their diurnal food,In undisturbed procession.

As undisturbed 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 pushed—or so I dreamed--,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 tattered flags, that with the opened door,Seemed the old wave of battle to remember.

While fallen fragments danced upon the floor,Like dead leaves in December.

The startled bats flew 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 echoed from the joisted roof,And up the stair, and further still and further.

Till in some ringing chamber far aloof,In ceased its tale of murther!.

Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round,The banner shuddered, and the ragged streamer.

All things the horrid tenor of the sound,Acknowledged with a tremor.

The antlers where the helmet hung, and belt,Stirred as the tempest stirs the forest branches.

Or as the stag had trembled when he felt,The bloodhound at his haunches.

The window jingled in its crumbled frame,And through 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 turned, and up its slender thread,Ran with a nimble terror.

The very stains and fractures on the wall,Assuming features solemn and terrific.

Hinted some tragedy of that old hall,Locked up in hieroglyphic.

Some tale that might, perchance, have solved the doubt,Wherefore, among those flags 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 fiber 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!.

Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread,But through one gloomy entrance pointing mostly.

The while some secret inspiration said,“That chamber is the ghostly!”.

Across the door no gossamer festoon,Swung pendulous, --no web, no dusty fringes.

No silky chrysalis or white cocoon,About its nooks and hinges.

The spider shunned the interdicted room,The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banished.

And when the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom,The very midge had vanished.

One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed,As if with awful aim direct and certain.

To show the Bloody Hand, in burning red,Embroidered on the curtain.

It was not in the Winter,Our loving lot was cast.

It was the time of roses—,We pluck'd them as we pass'd!.

That churlish season never frown'd,On early lovers yet.

O no—the world was newly crown'd,With flowers when first we met!.

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,But still you held me fast.

With fingers weary and worn,With eyelids heavy and red.

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,Plying her needle and thread--.

Stitch! stitch! stitch!,In poverty, hunger, and dirt.

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,She sang the "Song of the Shirt.".

"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!.

Seam, and gusset, and band,Band, and gusset, and seam.

Till over the buttons I fall asleep,And sew them on in a dream!.

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!,Oh, 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.

But why do I talk of Death?,That Phantom of grisly bone.

I hardly fear its terrible shape,It seems so like my own —.

It seems so like my own,Because of the fasts I keep.

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!.

"Work — work — work!,My Labour never flags.

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,A crust of bread — and rags.

That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor —,A table — a broken chair —.

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank,For sometimes falling there!.

"Work — work — work!,From weary chime to chime.

Work — work — work!,As prisoners work for crime!.

Band, and gusset, and seam,Seam, and gusset, and band.

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,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,And twit me with the spring.

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 respite however brief!.

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,But only time for Grief!.

A little weeping would ease my heart,But in their briny bed.