Thomas Hood

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.
Oh! it was pitiful!
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Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home had she none.

The moon, the moon, so silver and cold,
Her fickle temper has oft been told,
Now shade--now read more

The moon, the moon, so silver and cold,
Her fickle temper has oft been told,
Now shade--now bright and sunny--
But of all the lunar things that change,
The one that shows most fickle and strange,
And takes the most eccentric range,
Is the moon--so called--of honey!

It's very hard! Oh, Dick, my boy,
It's very hard one can't enjoy
A little private spouting;
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It's very hard! Oh, Dick, my boy,
It's very hard one can't enjoy
A little private spouting;
But sure as Lear or Hamlet lives,
Up comes our master, Bounce! and gives
The tragic Muse a routing.

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that read more

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!