[Decoration] THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845. _BALLAD._ I. It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses,-- We plucked them as we passed; II. That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet:-- Oh, no--the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met! III. 'T was twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses,-- We plucked them as we passed.-- [Decoration] _SONG._ O Lady, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestrie: There 's living roses on the bush, And blossoms on the tree; Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet; Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet. 'T is like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume; There 's crimson buds, and white and blue-- The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers. There 's fairy tulips in the east, The garden of the sun; The very streams reflect the hues, And blossom as they run: While Morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers; Then, Lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers! [Decoration] _I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER._ I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet! [Illustration: Full-page Plate] I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I 'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. _BALLAD._ She 's up and gone, the graceless Girl! And robbed my failing years; My blood before was thin and cold But now 't is turned to tears;-- My shadow falls upon my grave, So near the brink I stand, She might have stayed a little yet, And led me by the hand! Ay, call her on the barren moor, And call her on the hill, 'T is nothing but the heron's cry, And plover's answer shrill; My child is flown on wilder wings, Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste That widened when she fled.