STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS by THOMAS HOOD

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?

On land the rushlight 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!

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!

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 @3bunting@1 thing -- but still
To thee a flag of pride?

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?

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 brave mermen for a 'quest,
To find that you are -- drowned?

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!"

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

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!

Mayhap we ne'er shall meet again,
Except on that Pacific main,
Beyond this planet's brink;
Yet, as we erst have braved the weather,
Still may we float awhile together,
As comrades on this ink!

Many a scudding gale we've had
Together, and, my gallant lad,
Some perils we have passed;
When huge and black the wave career'd,
And oft the giant surge appear'd
The master of our mast; --

'Twas thy example taught me how
To climb the billow's hoary brow,
Or cleave the raging heap --
To bound along the ocean wild,
With danger -- only as a child
The waters rock'd to sleep.

Oh, who can tell that brave delight,
To see the hissing wave in might
Come rampant like a snake!
To leap his horrid crest, and feast
One's eyes upon the briny beast,
Left couchant in the wake!

The simple shepherd's love is still
To bask upon a sunny hill,
The herdsman roams the vale --
With both their fancies I agree;
Be mine the swelling, scooping sea,
That is both hill and dale!

I yearn for that brisk spray -- I yearn
To feel the wave from stem to stern
Uplift the plunging keel;
That merry step we used to dance
On board the Aidant or the Chance,
The ocean "toe and heel."

I long to feel the steady gale
That fills the broad distended sail --
The seas on either hand!
My thought, like any hollow shell,
Keeps mocking at my ear the swell
Of waves against the land.

It is no fable -- that old strain
Of syrens! -- so the witching main
Is singing -- and I sigh!
My heart is all at once inclined
To seaward -- and I seem to find
The waters in my eye!

Methinks I see the shining beach;
The merry waves, each after each,
Rebounding o'er the flints;
I spy the grim preventive spy!
The jolly boatmen standing nigh!
The maids in morning chintz!

And there they float -- the sailing craft!
The sail is up -- the wind abaft --
The ballast trim and neat.
Alas! 'tis all a dream -- a lie!
A printer's imp is standing by
To haul my mizen sheet!

My tiller dwindles to a pen --
My craft is that of bookish men --
My sail -- let Longman tell!
Adieu, the wave, the wind, the spray!
Men -- maidens -- chintzes -- fade away!
Tom Woodgate, fare thee well!

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