When one by one our friends have gone Heaven gives our years of fading strength And those of youth a seeming length HOHENLINDENA On Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Few, few shall part, where many meet! 1 Hohenlinden-a village of Germany, about twenty miles from Munich, where General Moreau completely defeated the combined army of Austrians and Bavarians on the 3d of December, 1800. 2 Iser, or Isar-a tributary of the Danube. 3 Hun-the Austrian force. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. A NAVAL ODE. Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!— While the stormy winds do blow; Britannia needs no bulwarks, Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow; And the storm has ceased to blow. "This spirited lyric well deserves to take of Almighty power as the only source of our rank with Rule Britannia. The main blemish own."-PAYNE. in both is the want of a specific recognition THOMAS HOOD, 1798-1845. FEW writers of this century have done more for humanity than the comic poet and quaint humorist, Thomas Hood. He was the son of a bookseller in London, and born in the year 1798. He was educated for the counting-house, and at an early age was placed under the charge of a city merchant. But the delicate state of his health soon put an end to his mercantile career, and he was sent to Dundee, to reside with some relatives. There he evinced a taste for letters, and made his first literary venture in the local journals. On the reestablishment of his health he returned to London, and was apprenticed to an uncle, an engraver. But, though he always retained his early love for the art, and had much facility in drawing, as the many quaint illustrations to his works testify, his tendencies were literary, and in 1821 he became a sort of sub-editor of the London Magazine. When this work stopped, he wrote for various periodicals, and was for some time editor of the New Monthly Magazine. It is sad to relate that the life of this gifted man was clouded by misfortunes: it was one of incessant exertion, imbittered by ill health and all the disquiets and uncertainties incidental to authorship. When almost prostrated by disease, the government stepped in to relieve him with a small pension,—one hundred pounds; and, after his premature death, on the 3d of May, 1845, his literary friends contributed liberally towards the support of his widow and family. Mr. Hood's productions are in various styles and forms. His first work. Whims and Oddities, attained to great popularity. He afterward tried a series of National Tales; but his prose was less attractive than his verse. A regular novel, Tylney Hall, was a more decided failure. In poetry he made a great advance. The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies is a rich imaginative work, superior to his other productions. As editor of the Comic Annual, and also of some of the literary annuals, Mr. Hood increased his reputation for sportive humor and poetical fancy; and he continued the same vein in his Up the Rhine,—a satire on the absurdities of English travellers. In 1843 he issued two volumes of Whimsicalities, a Periodical Gathering, collected chiefly from the New Monthly Magazine. His last production of any importance was the Song of the Shirt, which first appeared in Punch, and was as admirable in spirit as in composition. This striking picture of the miseries of the poor London sempstresses struck home to the heart, and aroused the benevolent feelings of the public. In most of Hood's works, even in his puns and levities, there is a "spirit of good" directed to some kindly or philanthropic object. Indeed, few writers surprise us so often with fine touches of humane feeling. He had serious and mournful jests, which were the more effective from their strange and unexpected combinations. Those who came to laugh at folly remained to sympathize with want and suffering.1 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)- (My love, he's poking peas into his ear)— 1 Read Gentleman's Magazine, July, 1845; Edinburgh Review, lxxxiii. 375. Thou merry, laughing sprite! Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin- Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth! (The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamp'd from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic love! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown.) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) I cannot write unless he's sent above!) |