XIX.

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead
  Like balls with no rebound! 
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
  Towards that merry ground!

XX.

Then be contented.  Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
  There’s sky-blue in thy cup! 
Thou’lt find thy Manhood all too fast—­
Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last
  A sorry breaking-up!

SONG.

There is dew for the flow’ret[6]
  And honey for the bee,
And bowers for the wild bird,
  And love for you and me.

There are tears for the many
  And pleasures for the few;
But let the world pass on, dear,
  There’s love for me and you.

There is care that will not leave us,
  And pain that will not flee;
But on our hearth unalter’d
  Sits Love—­’tween you and me.

Our love it ne’er was reckon’d,
  Yet good it is and true,
It’s half the world to me, dear,
  It’s all the world to you.

[Footnote 6:  The first two stanzas by Hood, the other two contributed by Barry Cornwall at the request of Mrs. Hood, with a view to the poem being set to music.]

THE WATER LADY.[7]

[Footnote 7:  Suggested, according to Hood’s son, by a water-color drawing by Keats’s friend Severn.]

Alas, the moon should ever beam
To show what man should never see!—­
I saw a maiden on a stream,
And fair was she!

I staid awhile, to see her throw
Her tresses black, that all beset
The fair horizon of her brow
With clouds of jet.

I staid a little while to view
Her cheek, that wore in place of red
The bloom of water, tender blue,
Daintily spread.

I staid to watch, a little space,
Her parted lips if she would sing;
The waters closed above her face
With many a ring.

And still I staid a little more,
Alas! she never comes again! 
I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine,
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she’s divine!

AUTUMN.

The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;—­
He hath gather’d up gold,
And now he is dying;—­
Old Age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;—­
But some that have sow’d
Have no riches for reaping;—­
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

The year’s in the wane,
There is nothing adorning,
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;—­
Cold winter gives warning.