Thomas Hood (1799 – 1845)
English humorist and poet.
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.
His death which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton tolled the bell.
Peace and rest at length have come
All the day's long toil is past,
And each heart is whispering, "Home,
Home at last."
For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.
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 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.
That very night while gentle sleep
The urchin's eyelids kissed,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
No sun—no moon—no morn—no noon,
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day,
No warmth—no cheerfulness—no healthful ease,
No road, no street, no t' other side the way,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold.