A shriek that echoed from its joisted roof, up the stair, and further still and further, Till in some ringing chamber far aloof It ceased its tale of murther! 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. Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread, But through one gloomy entrance pointing mostly, "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, One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed, As if with awful aim direct and certain, Here is a sweet passage from The Fairies: -- Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night! Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth: These be the feasters on night's silver cloth,- These be the pretty genii of the flowers, ! Fairies and sprites, and goblin elves we call them, No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them, For these are kindly ministers of nature To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress; Here are two gems: We watched her breathing through the night, her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro. Love thy mother, little one! kiss and clasp her neck again,Hereafter she may have a son will kiss and clasp her neck in vain : Love thy mother, little one. Gaze upon her living eyes, and mirror back her love for thee,Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs to meet them when they cannot see: Gaze upon her living eyes! Press her lips the while they glow with love that they have often told, Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, and kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow! It is the glory of Hood, that he was not only a master poet, but a philanthropist he remembered the forgotten. It has been well remarked, that his greatest work is that which his poems will do for the poor. The critic already referred to remarks: "Hood was not one of those lofty and commanding minds that rise but once in an age, on the mountain ranges of which light first smiles and last lingers. He does not keep his admirers standing at gaze in distant reverence and awe. He is no cold, polished, statuesque idol of the intellect, but one of the darlings of the English heart. You never think of Hood as dead and turned to marble statue or bust could never represent him to the imagination. It is always a real human being, with the quaintest, kindliest smile, that looks into your face, and straightway your heart is touched to open and let him in. Few names will call forth so tender a familiarity of affection as that of rare Tom Hood." His last lines were these : Farewell, Life! my senses swim, Upward steals a vapour chill; Strong the earthy odour grows- Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives! The subjoined plaintive and beautiful lines are part of MRS. MACLEAN'S (L. E. L.) poem on Night at Sea : The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing 'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming; Through the slight vapour trembles each dim star; I turn away—my heart is sadly dreaming Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar. My friends, my absent friends! do you think of me as I think of you? The world, with one vast element omitted Man's own especial element, the earth; Yet o'er the waters is his rule transmitted By that great knowledge wherein power has birth. The purple waves, like some wild army, raising Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through. My friends, my absent friends! do you think of me as I think of you? Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning, Up springs the flying-fish, like life's false joy, |