« PreviousContinue »
“I’ll give him dash for dash."
J****N farewell | farewell to all
I cannot live an Author long !
No small inditer of reviews
The smallest bird that wings the sky,
I aimed at higher growth; and now
The very man that sought me once—”
As human fashions change about,
For when the Wigs are going out,
* “Mr. Hood bestows his tediousness on that most sage and chaste of periodicals, the Literary Gazette, where he celebrates David Laing, or any other blacksmith that may happen to die.”—Public note of the London Weekly Review.”
“The Editor would be sorry indeed to part with Mr. Hood's occasional contributions, if he could possibly secure them.”—Private note of the London Weekly Review.
“This is very like the ancient fable of the Fox and the Sour Grapes; but it is surely not rigidly impartial to quarrel with an Author because he refuses to hide his light under your tub, and prefers writing where he must be generally read, to where he has no chance of being read at all.”— London Literary Gazette, Aug. 25th, 1827.
SONG FOR THE NINETEENTH."
THE morning sky is hung with mist,
Our evening bowl was strong and stiff,
I ne'er was better lodged,—for if
So now to arms l to arms! to arms
And if they ask who won your charms,
Why say—“’t was in your nineteenth year!”
PROBABLY WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS,
I'm sick of gruel, and the dietetics,
* “I forgot to say I composed a song for the 19th, which made them all laugh. I send it for you.”—Potsdam, Oct., 1836.
UNFATHOMABLE Night! how dost thou sweep
GOOD morrow to the golden morning,
I’ve come to bless thy life's beginning,
I have brought no roses, sweetest,
It was when all sweets were over
But I’ve brought thee jewels, dearest,
And if love shows in their glances,
HUSH ! not a sound ! no whisper 1 no demur !
For now no fancied miseries bespeak
Yes! where the foaming billows rave the while Around the rocky Ferns and Holy Isle, Deaf to their roar, as to the dear applause That greets deserving in the Drama's cause, Blind to the horrors that appal the bold, To all he hoped, or feared, or loved, of old— To love, and love's deep agony, a-cold; He, who could move the passions, moved by none, Drifts an unconscious corse.—Poor Elton's race is run!
* The address was written by my father at the request of Mr. Dickens. It was delivered by the late Mrs. Warner, at a theatrical benefit night, at the Haymarket Theatre. The proceeds went to the fund raised for the children of poor Elton, the actor, who was wrecked off the Fern Islands.Memorials.