Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A RUSTIC ODE, by THOMAS HOOD Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Oh! Well may poets make a fuss Last Line: This endless meal of brick. Variant Title(s): Ode. Imitated From Horace Subject(s): Country Life | ||||||||
OH! well may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sign, "O rus!" Of London pleasures sick: My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades, -- my eyes detest This endless meal of brick! What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn; I scent no flowery gust: But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me "dust to dust." My sun his daily course renews Due east, but with no eastern dews; The path is dry and hot! His setting shows more tamely still, He sinks behind no purple hill, But down a chimney's pot! Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blithe, Or early mower whet his scythe The dewy meads among! My grass is of that sort, -- alas! That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass By folks of vulgar tongue! Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet! I think of cowlip-cups, -- but meet With very vile rebuffs! For meadow buds, I get a whiff Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff The turtle made at Cuff's. How tenderly Rousseau review'd His periwinkles! mine are stew'd! My rose blooms on a gown! I hunt in vain for eglantine, And find my blue-bell on the sign That marks the Bell and Crown! Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gayly sing Or mourn in thickets deep? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchmen is my Philomel, My blackbird is a sweep! Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush! That perch on leafy bough and bush, And tune the various song? Two hurdy-gurdis, and a poor Street-Handel grinding at my door, Are all my "tuneful throng." Where are ye, early-purling streams, Whose waves reflect the morning beams, And colours of the skies? My rills are only puddle-drains From shambles, or reflect the stains Of calimanco-dyes. Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones: Not thus the city streamlets flow; They make no music as they go, Though never "off the stones." Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep, That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap Beside your woolly dams? Alas! instead of harmless crooks, My Corydons use iron hooks, And skin -- not shear -- the lambs. The pipe whereon, in olden day, The Arcadian herdsmen used to play Sweetly, here soundeth not; But merely breathes unwelcome fumes, Meanwhile the city boor consumes The rank weed -- "piping hot." All rural things are vilely mock'd, On every hand the sense is shock'd With objects hard to bear: Shades -- vernal shades! where wine is sold! And for a turfy bank, behold An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bowers, And gardens redolent of flowers Wherein the zephyr wons? Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more! See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er; And that bare wood, -- St. John's. No pastoral scene procures me peace; I hold no leasowes in my lease, No cot set round with trees: No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks; And omnium furnishes my banks With brokers, not with bees. Oh! well may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sigh, "O rus!" Of city pleasures sick: My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades, -- my eyes detest This endless meal of brick. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TARIFF by GEORGE HENRY BOKER A DRIVE IN THE COUNTRY by TED KOOSER THERE IS ALWAYS A LITTLE WIND by TED KOOSER COUNTRYSIDE by JOSEPHINE MILES |
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