Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ADDRESS TO THE SOCIAL LITERARY SOCIETY, JULY 1820, by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ADDRESS TO THE SOCIAL LITERARY SOCIETY, JULY 1820, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Nature, like man, her summer coat puts on
Last Line: "than now -- when doom'd to finish with ""farewell!"
Subject(s): Literature


NATURE, like man, her summer coat puts on,
Her mourning's over -- and the Winter's gone.
The Serpentine is clear -- Hyde Park is green,
And verdant trees, in Tothill Fields, are seen,
And summer's warm, and vegetative pow'rs,
Are seen in Covent Garden's fruits and flow'rs.

Now, rouse the swallows from their torpid sleep,
And through the air in wanton circuits sweep;
The butterflies escape from winter cells,
And shine abroad -- like other Beaux and Belles.
London's gay Ladybirds emerge in white,
And even City Drones prepare for flight.
Each busy Gad-fly her old plumage scours,
For "a-qu-a-tic trips," or dryland "tow'rs."
Some go to Bath, from mineral springs to sip,
And some in Nature's pickle-tub to dip.
Some, sick of London and of smoke, agree
To go to Margate -- and be sick at sea!

Steam-boats and hoys are crammed with living freight,
Till Ocean groans, and grumbles at the weight!
Pouring from these -- a vast migrating host,
They swarm, like locusts, all along the coast.
Princes and Pedlars -- all pursue the same,
Hunters they are, and Happiness the game.
Some look for Fortune in the fickle pack,
And some for Pleasure -- on a donkey's back!
Some go to advertise a pretty face,
And some to deal in Cognac and lace;
Some seek for Husbands -- some from Husbands run,
And some are done -- "or done for" -- "or undone."
Some sedentary souls, less given to roam,
Contented "ruralize" more near to Home.
In all those verdant meadows that abound
At Hackney -- Islington -- and all around,
Like sportive lambkins, or young calves at play,
They love to gambol in the summer hay.
That hay is fragrant, and the grass as green
As though Saint Paul's blue dome were quite unseen,
Or, lull'd by music, on the breeze that swells,
(The well-known harmony of old Bow Bells,)
They gaze, enraptur'd, on the prospect round,
A rural scene -- with brick horizon bound!

All cockney beauties are to Cockneys sweet,
So Canonbury seems a county seat.
The pale New River is as bright a stream,
As mighty Tiber -- the proud Roman's theme.
Nor Italy's sweet groves are half so good
As that green labyrinth at Hornsey Wood;
And say, what garden e'er was plann'd or penn'd,
Like that of Fleecy Hosey -- at Mile End?
Where painted garden-pots the alleys fill,
In flaming rows -- like Volunteers at drill,
And all the ground in rich devices spreads
Of ovals, circles, squares -- nay, diamond beds!
But if in town predestin'd to remain,
To sigh, "Oh, Rus.," but sigh, alas! in vain,
The Cit invests a sum in Purple Stocks,
And from his window hangs his Country Box.
There strives the smells of London to forget,
Snuffing the fragrance of the Mignonette,
And revelling in Fancy's airy food,
Enjoys a garden -- in his hanging wood!

So certain students to a town confin'd,
(All Nature's charms and scenery resign'd,)
Enraptur'd, listen'd o'er their learned pages,
To grasshoppers that sung from paper cages!
But chief of all the joys that Cockneys know
In summer days -- is gipseying to go,
Oh how delightful! underneath a tree
To sit, and sip -- a rural cup of tea!
All on the grass -- for table there is none --
And taking tea -- as Adam must have done!

The Cit, uncoated, sits apart to muse
O'er Morning Chronicle -- or Times, or News.
Silence! ye little ones! the mother cries,
And Granny chides, but with approving eyes,
E'en little Shock augments the merry scene,
In gambols with the urchins, on the green,
And William whispers to his Mary dear,
And Mary blushes, nor appears to hear,
With face averted, plucks a flow'r the while,
And strives to hide her blushes and her smile.
This, this is bliss! the best that Cockneys find,
(When nought is lost -- nor kettle left behind.)

Such are the scenes, by Gipsey Parties made,
Such, Leslie's pencil hath of late pourtray'd.
Though Taste may smile at means, and modes of bliss,
Benevolence exults in scenes like this.
Not Italy's bright scenes could charm the eye,
If stained with Battle's sanguinary dye,
But, sure, that prospect will be counted bright,
Where hundreds roam, in innocent delight,
Where happy groups of fellow-beings throng
All blythe, and merry, as a Beggar's Song.

But whither, Muse, must Cockneys soon repair
For rural scenery -- and country "hare?"
Where once were avenues of trees, so green,
Now dusty streets, and climbing bricks are seen.
On one sad field the teeming houses rise,
Another field, the fuming bricks supplies:
The chimneys smoke, where flow'rs were sweet before,
And (in a word) Moor Fields are fields no more.
But not alone the giddy, and the gay,
Exult and frolic in the summer ray.
The grave philosopher -- the hoary sage,
Resign the closet, and the mouldy page.
"Adieu, they cry -- ye dusty tomes, adieu,
Lo, Nature's volume's opened to our view,
Lessons in every leaf shall then be ours,
And morals, gather'd from the simplest flowers."
There will we gather, like the Bee, a store,
For Contemplation, when the summer's o'er.

Go, cries the Moralist -- the fields invite,
Sip, while still young, each innocent delight.
Roam, like the Butterfly, from place, to place,
And gaze on Nature's ever-varied face.
Let Vision revel in her summer charms,
While glows the bosom, and the Fancy warms.
While day reviving -- into splendour wakes
The vivid scenery of Western Lakes.
Or mark from Surrey's hills each fairy scene,
Or Windsor's Terrace -- or delightful Sheen,
Where silver Thames, his winding waters leads,
Thro' fields of waving gold, and emerald meads,
Where snowy flocks, and browsing herds abound,
And clust'ring villages are scatter'd round,
Sacred to Peace, where honest hearts reside,
And Freedom dwells -- the humblest peasant's pride!
There, mark the harmony of blended hues,
Of yellow, orange, purple, green, and blues.
Where light and shade, in partial streaks reflect,
And shed around the Magic of Effect.

Such are the scenes, the frequent scenes, that smile,
And bind the Briton to his native Isle.
The country of the Good, the Wise, the Brave,
And, oh! too beautiful to bear a slave!
Whose lovely daughters in each charm excel,
The fairest shrines where Virtue loves to dwell!
Long, long, my country, may thy prospects shine!
And all those blessings unimpaired be thine.
May honest industry its own obtain,
May Virtue triumph, Truth with Justice reign,
And Peace, with Freedom, flourish on thy shore,
Till thine, and Nature's charms, shall be no more!

But some to other lands for Pleasure roam,
Cloy'd with the scenes that Nature lends at Home.
Helvetia's scenery the Painter fires,
And classic Italy the Muse inspires,
To holy Palestine few pilgrims stray,
While France allures whole coveys of the gay.
These shining novelties the giddy please,
And empty Vanity is quite at ease.
Here Folly has its day, and Fashion rules,
The potent sovereign -- the Pope of Fools,
That can its many votaries control,
Like Pius's great self from head to sole,
Can place them Purgatory's pains within,
And grant Indulgences -- and sanction sin!

Yet, oh! that these would ne'er forget the lot,
The want, and woe in many a British cot,
Where manly hearts distil the big, round, tear,
And bleed, in silence, like the stricken deer.
Shall gay, ungalled hearts, go bounding by,
And heedless Wealth its patronage deny?
Sweep on, sweep on, ye citizens, nor look
On overflowing hearts, that swell the brook.
Seek other homes, on other pastures range,
And say, that Tyranny provoked the change,
Go, make your coward infamy your boast,
And fly, when Patriots are wanted most!

For us -- now leaving literary flowers
For those of Nature and her summer bowers,
Our learned law, like AEsop's we unbend,
And in this rhyme our reasonings all end.
We go, where Fate or Fortune may decree,
And Heav'n attend our path where'er it be!
But when Dame Winter shall, in clogs, approach --
Wrapp'd in Bath Cloak, and calling "Hackney Coach!"
When summer's swallows shall forsake our shore --
And painted butterflies shall fly no more --
When grubs retire their secret cells within,
And London's Ladybirds -- but not to spin --
When jolly farmers their October brew --
Then, this Society shall meet anew.
Then Social Harmony shall take the Chair,
And Learning's votaries be welcome there,
And smiling Mirth shall mingle with the rest,
A welcome, nor an uninvited guest. --
Friendship, and Argument in league shall sit,
And sober Judgment shaking hands with Wit;
And, as 'tis ours -- and may be -- ours alone
The charms of Female eloquence to own,
So thoughts shall rise, from Taste, and Feeling, sprung,
And set to music -- on the Ladies' tongue.
Then Blackie shall exert his varied pow'rs,
And Barber's eloquence again be ours,
Lawrence shall lend his bucket for the well,
Where Truth, where naked Truth, is said to dwell.
Mackenzie, Harper, younger Lawrence, strive,
To draw her to the top, or else to dive,
And I -- to occupy an idle time
May teach you all, as now -- to prose in rhyme. --
Then hopes the Muse a merrier tale to tell,
Than now -- when doom'd to finish with "Farewell!"





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