VI.

For me thou shon'st, as shines a star,
Lonely, in clouds when heaven is lost;

Thou wert my guiding light afar,

When on Misfortune's billows tost:

Now darkness hath obscured that light,
And I am left, in rayless night,

On Sorrow's lowering coast.

VII.

And art thou gone? I deemed thee some
Immortal essence,-thou art gone!-

I saw thee laid within the tomb,
And I am left to mourn alone:

Once to have loved, is to have loved
Enough; and what with thee I proved,
Again I'll seek in none.

VIII.

Earth in thy sight grew faëry land ;—
Life was Elysium-thought was love,-
When, long ago, hand clasped in hand,
We roamed through Autumn's twilight grove;
Or watched the broad, uprising moon
Shed, as it were, a wizard noon,

The blasted heath above.

IX.

Farewell!-and must I say, farewell?—
No-thou wilt ever be to me

A present thought; thy form shall dwell
In love's most holy sanctuary;

Thy voice shall mingle with my dreams,
And haunt me, when the shot-star gleams
Above the rippling sea.

X.

Never revives the past again;
But thou shalt be, in lonely hours,

To me earth's heaven,-the azure main,—
Soft music, and the breath of flowers;
My heart shall gain from thee its hues;
And Memory give, though Truth refuse,
The bliss that once was ours!

Δ.

STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF

HASTINGS.

BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ.

I.

TOM!-are you still within this land
Of livers-still on Hastings' sand,
Or roaming on the waves,—
Or has some billow o'er you rolled,
Jealous that earth should lap so bold
A seaman in her graves?

II.

On land the rush-light lives of men
Go out but slowly; nine in ten,

By tedious long decline,

Not so the jolly sailor sinks,

Who founders in the wave, and drinks

The apoplectic brine!

III.

Ay, while I write, mayhap your head

Is sleeping on an oyster-bed,

I hope 'tis far from truth!— With periwinkle eyes ;-your bone Beset with mussels, not your own,

And corals at your tooth!

IV.

Still does the Chance pursue the chance
The main affords-the Aidant dance
In safety on the tide ?

Still flies that sign of my good-will

A little bunting thing—but still
To thee a flag of pride?

V.

Does that hard, honest hand now clasp The tiller in its careful grasp―

With every summer breeze When ladies sail, in lady-fear

Or, tug the oar, a gondolier

On smooth Macadam seas?

VI.

Or are you where the flounders keep,
Some dozen briny fathoms deep,

Where sand and shells abound

With some old Triton on your chest And twelve grave mermen for a 'quest,

To find that you are-drowned?

VII.

Swift is the wave, and apt to bring
A sudden doom-perchance I sing
A mere funereal strain ;-

You have endured the utter strife-
And are the same in death or life,
A good man in the main !

VIII.

Oh, no-I hope the old brown eye
Still watches ebb and flood and sky;
That still the old brown shoes
Are sucking brine up-pumps indeed!
Your tooth still full of ocean weed,

Or Indian-which you choose.

IX.

I like you, Tom! and in these lays
Give honest worth its honest praise,

No puff at honour's cost;

For though you met these words of mine,

All letter-learning was a line

You, somehow, never crossed!

X.

Mayhap, we ne'er shall meet again,

Except on that Pacific main,