Still one of Adam's heirs, though doomed by chance of birth To dress so mean, and to eat the lean instead of the fat of the earth; To make such humble meals as honest labor can A bone and a crust, with a grace to God, and little thanks to man! A spade! a rake! a hoe! a pickaxe or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, a flail, or what ye will : Whatever the tool to ply, here is a willing drudge, With muscle and limb-and woe to him who does their pay begrudge ! THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work, Till the stars shine through the roof! Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! Work-work-work! Till the brain begins to swim! Work-work-work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Band, and gusset, and seam, O men, with sisters dear! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, But why do I talk of Death? O God! that bread should be so dear Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are the wages? A bed of straw, That shattered roof, and this naked floor, And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime; Work-work-work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed As well as the weary hand. Work-work-work! In the dull December light! And work-work-work, When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their pretty backs, And twit me with the Spring. O! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet; And the grass beneath my feet, To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, O! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch- HOOD, THOMAS, the only son of the preceding, was born in 1835, and died in 1874. He was educated at Pembroke College, Oxford, and made literature his profession. He contributed to periodicals, edited various collections of the works of his father, to some of which he furnished illustrations, and in 1865 became editor of the comic periodical Fun. He wrote several works in prose and verse, taking his father as his model. FRANCES FREELING (BRODERICK), the daughter of Thomas Hood the elder, was also the author of several works, and in conjunction with her brother prepared a Memorial of their father. HOOFT, PIETER CORNELISZOON, a Dutch poet, dramatist, and historian, born at Amsterdam, March 16, 1581; died at The Hague, May 21, 1647. His father was a burgomaster, and was well known throughout Holland as a patron of literature. At the age of seventeen Hooft became a member of the Eglantine Chamber of Rhetoric and produced his Achilles and Polyxena. The same year he left home on an extensive tour of France, Italy, and Germany; during which he sent to the Eglantine a metrical Letter, dated July, 1600, which marks an epoch in the development of the poetry of the Netherlands. Returning home in 1601, he produced his tragedy of Ariadne (1602), and finished his drama of Granida (1605). In 1606 he began the study of law at Leyden; and three years later he took up his final residence at Muiden, under the patronage of the Prince of Orange, who made him Lord of Weesp. In 1610 he married Christina van Erp, the celebrated botanist. During the following eight years he produced his Geeraerdt van Velsen (1612), a national tragedy of the time of Count Floris V.; Ware-nar (1614), a comedy after Plautus; Baeto, or The Origin of the Dutch (1618). 1618 he turned his attention to the writing of history, and published thereafter his History of Henry the Great (1626); Miseries of the Princes of the House of Medici (1638), and Dutch History (1642). In Hooft is considered one of the most influential writers in the history of Dutch literature; after Vondel, perhaps he is the brightest literary figure that Holland has produced. The criticism of Edmund Gosse is valuable as being at the same time just and free from fulsome adulation: "He desired to be a severe purist in style, and to a great extent he succeeded; but, like most of the writers of his age, he permitted himself too many Latinisms. In his poetry, especially in the lyrical and pastoral verse of his youth, he is full of Italian reminiscences both of style and matter; in his noble prose works he has set himself to be a disciple of Tacitus. Motley has spoken of him as one of the greatest historians, not merely of Holland, but of Europe. His influence in purifying the language of his country, and in enlarging its sphere of experience, can hardly be overrated." Hooft's verses describing the way in which his friend Tesselschade Visscher, the most renowned of Dutch poetesses, spent her time while visiting him at Muiden, are in his happiest vein. TESSELSCHADE AT MUIDEN. Love-god, stern of sovereignty, What employs her leisure so? |