The Lee Shore.

Sleet! and Hail! and Thunder!
And ye Winds that rave,
Till the sands thereunder
Tinge the sullen wave -

Winds, that like a Demon,
Howl with horrid note
Round the toiling Seaman,
In his tossing boat -

From his humble dwelling,
On the shingly shore,
Where the billows swelling,
Keep such hollow roar -

From that weeping Woman,
Seeking with her cries
Succor superhuman
From the frowning skies -

From the Urchin pining
For his Father's knee -
From the lattice shining -
Drive him out to sea!

Let broad leagues dissever
Him from yonder foam -
Oh, God! to think Man ever
Comes too near his Home!

Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood, born May 23, 1799, and passed away on May 3, 1845, was a British humorist and poet renowned for his comic verse and sharp satire. His most famous works include 'The Song of the Shirt' and 'The Bridge of Sighs,' which highlighted social issues and the plight of the poor. Hood's legacy is celebrated for blending humor with a deep empathy for human suffering, making his poetry both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Thomas Hood

Flowers.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Shooting Pains.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Our Village. - By A Villager.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

Verses In An Album.

Thomas Hood, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Storm At Hastings, And The Little Unknown.

'Twas August - Hastings every day was filling -
Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste"!
With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling
To be bedipped - be noticed - or be braced,
And all things rose a penny in a shilling.
Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste
"Accommodation bills" kept coming down,
Gladding "the world of-letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits,
Flying from London smoke and dust annoying,
Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits,
And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying,
Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits,
And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying
A morning's reading by the ocean's rim,
That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature,

Thomas Hood

The Mermaid Of Margate.[1]

"Alas! what perils do environ
That man who meddles with a siren!" - Hudibrus.



On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,
And the sentimental reads;
Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes
Like the ocean - to cast her weeds; -

Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships, -
Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells, -
And the Chandler for watery dips; -

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,
As lovely and fair as sin!
But woe, deep water and woe to him,
That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,
And her locks are golden loose,
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,
To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And all day long she combeth them...

Thomas Hood

Sonnet To Ocean.[1]

Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth!
Yet didst thou n'er restore my fainting health? -
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me? -
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!

Thomas Hood

The Exile.

The swallow with summer
Will wing o'er the seas,
The wind that I sigh to
Will visit thy trees.
The ship that it hastens
Thy ports will contain,
But me! - I must never
See England again!

There's many that weep there,
But one weeps alone,
For the tears that are falling
So far from her own;
So far from thy own, love,
We know not our pain;
If death is between us,
Or only the main.

When the white cloud reclines
On the verge of the sea,
I fancy the white cliffs,
And dream upon thee;
But the cloud spreads its wings
To the blue heav'n and flies.
We never shall meet, love,
Except in the skies!

Thomas Hood

The Mary. - A Sea-Side Sketch.

Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide
To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast,
And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide, -
Like God's own beadsman going forth to cast
His net into the deep, which doth provide
Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast
Bosom like Charity's, for all who seek
And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?

The sea is bright with morning, - but the dark
Seems still to linger on his broad black sail,
For it is early hoisted, like a mark
For the low sun to shoot at with his pale
And level beams: All round the shadowy bark
The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale
Swells in her canvas, till the waters show
The keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.

Then look abaft - (for thou canst understand
That phrase) - and...

Thomas Hood

The Demon-Ship.

'Twas off the Wash - the sun went down - the sea look'd black and grim,
For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim;
Titanic shades! enormous gloom! - as if the solid night
Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light!
It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye
With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!

Down went my-helm - close reef'd - the tack held freely in my hand -
With ballast snug - I put about, and scudded for the land.
Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee - my little boat flew fast,
But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.
Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail!
What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail!

What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps be...

Thomas Hood