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Thomas Hood - A Retrospective Review
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I

Oh, when I was a tiny boy, 
My days and nights were full of joy, 
My mates were blithe and kind!— 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the tear-drop from my eye, 
To cast a look behind!

 
II
 
A hoop was an eternal round 
Of pleasure. In those days I found 
A top a joyous thing;— 
But now those past delights I drop, 
My head, alas! is all my top, 
And careful thoughts the string!

 
III
 
My marbles—once my bag was stored,— 
Now I must play with Elgin`s lord, 
With Theseus for a taw! 
My playful horse has slipt his string, 
Forgotten all his capering, 
And harness`d to the law!

 
IV
 
My kite—how fast and far it flew! 
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew 
My pleasure from the sky! 
`Twas paper`d o`er with studious themes, 
The tasks I wrote—my present dreams 
Will never soar so high!

 
V
 
My joys are wingless all and dead; 
My dumps are made of more than lead;— 
My flights soon find a fall; 
My fears prevail, my fancies droop, 
Joy never cometh with a hoop, 
And seldom with a call!

 
VI
 
My football`s laid upon the shelf; 
I am a shuttlecock myself 
The world knocks to and fro;— 
My archery is all unlearn`d, 
And grief against myself has turn`d 
My arrows and my bow!

 
VII
 
No more in noontide sun I bask; 
My authorship`s an endless task, 
My head`s ne`er out of school: 
My heart is pain`d with scorn and slight, 
I have too many foes to fight, 
And friends grown strangely cool!

 
VIII
 
The very chum that shared my cake 
Holds out so cold a hand to shake, 
It makes me shrink and sigh:— 
On this I will not dwell and hang,— 
The changeling would not feel a pang 
Though these should meet his eye! 


IX
 
No skies so blue or so serene 
As then;—no leaves look half so green 
As clothed the playground tree! 
All things I loved are altered so, 
Nor does it ease my heart to know 
That change resides in me! 


X
 
Oh for the garb that marked the boy, 
The trousers made of corduroy, 
Well ink`d with black and red; 
The crownless hat, ne`er deem`d an ill— 
It only let the sunshine still 
Repose upon my head!

 
XI
 
Oh for the riband round the neck! 
The careless dogs-ears apt to deck 
My book and collar both! 
How can this formal man be styled 
Merely an Alexandrine child, 
A boy of larger growth?

 
XII
 
Oh for that small, small beer anew! 
And (heaven`s own type) that mild sky-blue 
That wash`d my sweet meals down; 
The master even!—and that small Turk 
That fagg`d me!—worse is now my work— 
A fag for all the town! 


XIII
 
Oh for the lessons learned by heart! 
Ay, though the very birch`s smart 
Should mark those hours again; 
I`d "kiss the rod," and be resign`d 
Beneath the stroke, and even find 
Some sugar in the cane!

 
XIV
 
The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! 
The Fairy Tales in school-time read, 
By stealth, `twixt verb and noun! 
The angel form that always walk`d 
In all my dreams, and look`d and talk`d 
Exactly like Miss Brown! 


XV

The omne bene—Christmas come! 
The prize of merit, won for home— 
Merit had prizes then! 
But now I write for days and days, 
For fame—a deal of empty praise, 
Without the silver pen!

 
XVI
 
Then "home, sweet home!" the crowded coach— 
The joyous shout—the loud approach— 
The winding horns like rams`! 
The meeting sweet that made me thrill, 
The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still, 
No `satis` to the `jams`!—

 
XVII
 
When that I was a tiny boy 
My days and nights were full of joy, 
My mates were blithe and kind! 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the tear-drop from my eye, 
To cast a look behind!
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