Thomas Hood

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms

No sun--no moon
No morn--no noon
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--No sky--no earthly view--No distance looking blue--No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--No end to any Row--No indications where the Crescents ...

'Twas in the prime of summer-time An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool

Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth,
Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind,
And still a large late love of all thy kind
Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,— For all these gifts,

The 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 sun was slumbering in the West,
My daily labors past;
On Anna's soft and gentle breast My head reclined at last;
The darkness closed around, so dear To fond congenial souls,

Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid
But as they fetch'd a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to

Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,— A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die With that unchanging countenance of sleep
As if its silent dream, serene and deep,
Had lined its slumbe...

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,

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

Look how the golden ocean shines above Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth;
So does the bright and blessed light of Love Its own things glorify, and raise their worth
As weeds seem flowers beneath the flattering brine,
And ...

I 'Twas in that mellow season of the year When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves Till they be gold,—and with a broader sphere The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;
When more abundantly the spider weaves,
And the cold wind brea...