The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood, by Thomas Hood

The Two Peacocks of Bedfont.


Alas! That breathing Vanity should go

Where Pride is buried — like its very ghost,

Uprisen from the naked bones below,

In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast

Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,

Shedding its chilling superstition most

On young and ignorant natures — as it wont

To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!


Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,

Behold two maidens, up the quiet green

Shining, far distant, in the summer air

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between

Their downy plumes — sailing as if they were

Two far-off ships — until they brush between

The churchyard’s humble walls, and watch and wait

On either side of the wide open’d gate,


And there they stand — with haughty necks before

God’s holy house, that points towards the skies —

Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes:

And Youth looks lingering from the temple door,

Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,

With pouting lips — forgetful of the grace,

Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face; —


Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,

May wear the happiness of rich attire;

And those two sisters, in their silly pride,

May change the soul’s warm glances for the fire

Of lifeless diamonds; — and for health denied —

With art, that blushes at itself, inspire

Their languid cheeks — and flourish in a glory

That has no life in life, nor after-story.


The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair

In meekest censuring, and turns his eye

Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray’r,

And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by,

Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear

Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly

Put on thy censure, that might win the praise

Of one so gray in goodness and in days?


Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame

Of this ungodly shine of human pride,

And sadly blends his reverence and blame

In one grave bow, and passes with a stride

Impatient:— many a red-hooded dame

Turns her pain’d head, but not her glance, aside

From wanton dress, and marvels o’er again,

That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.


“I have a lily in the bloom at home,”

Quoth one, “and by the blessed Sabbath day

I’ll pluck my lily in its pride, and come

And read a lesson upon vain array; —

And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some

Give place, I’ll shake it in proud eyes and say —

Making my reverence — ‘Ladies, an you please,

King Solomon’s not half so fine as these,’”


Then her meek partner, who has nearly run

His earthly course — “Nay, Goody, let your text

Grow in the garden. — We have only one —

Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next?

Summer will come again, and summer sun,

And lilies too — but I were sorely vext

To mar my garden, and cut short the blow

Of the last lily I may live to grow,”


“The last!” quoth she, “and though the last it were —

Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud

With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair,

And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow’d

And curtsey’d to! — last Sabbath after pray’r,

I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud

If they were angels — but I made him know

God’s bright ones better, with a bitter blow!”


So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk

That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng,

Hand-coupled urchins in restrainëd talk,

And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong,

And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk,

And gold-bedizen’d beadle flames along,

And gentle peasant clad in buff and green,

Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene;


And blushing maiden — modestly array’d

In spotless white — still conscious of the glass;

And she, the lonely widow, that hath made

A sable covenant with grief — alas!

She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade,

While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass,

Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress

Her boy — so rosy! — and so fatherless!

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near

The fair white temple, to the timely call

Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear. —

Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl

Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere

Of the low porch, and heav’n has won them all,

— Saying those two, that turn aside and pass,

In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass.

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

Ah me! to see their silken manors trail’d

In purple luxuries — with restless gold —

Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail’d

In blotted black — over the heapy mould

Panting wave-wantonly! They never quail’d

How the warm vanity abused the cold;

Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone

Sadly uplooking through transparent stone:

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

But swept their dwellings with unquiet light,

Shocking the awful presence of the dead;

Where gracious natures would their eyes benight,

Nor wear their being with a lip too red,

Nor move too rudely in the summer bright

Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread,

Meting it into steps, with inward breath,

In very pity to bereaved death.

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

Now in the church, time-sober’d minds resign

To solemn pray’r, and the loud chaunted hymn —

With glowing picturings of joys divine

Painting the mist-light where the roof is dim;

But youth looks upward to the window shine,

Warming with rose and purple and the swim

Of gold, as if thought-tinted by the stains

Of gorgeous light through many-color’d panes;

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath

Enrobed his angels — and with absent eyes

Hearing of Heav’n, and its directed path,

Thoughtful of slippers — and the glorious skies

Clouding with satin — till the preacher’s wrath

Consumes his pity, and he glows and cries

With a deep voice that trembles in its might,

And earnest eyes grow eloquent in light:

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

“Oh, that the vacant eye would learn to look

On very beauty, and the heart embrace

True loveliness, and from this holy book

Drink the warm-breathing tenderness and grace

Of love indeed! Oh, that the young soul took

Its virgin passion from the glorious face

Of fair religion, and address’d its strife,

To win the riches of eternal life!”

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

“Doth the vain heart love glory that is none,

And the poor excellence of vain attire?

Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun,

The visible ruler of the starry quire,

Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run,

Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire;

And the faint soul down-darkens into night,

And dies a burning martyrdom to light.”

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

Oh go, and gaze — when the low winds of ev’n

Breathe hymns, and Nature’s many forests nod

Their gold-crown’d heads; and the rich blooms of heav’n

Sun-ripen’d give their blushes up to God;

And mountain-rocks and cloudy steeps are riv’n

By founts of fire, as smitten by the rod

Of heavenly Moses — that your thirsty sense

May quench its longings of magnificence!

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

“Yet suns shall perish — stars shall fade away —

Day into darkness — darkness into death —

Death into silence; the warm light of day,

The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breath

Of even — all shall wither and decay,

Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath

The touch of morn — or bubbles of rich dyes

That break and vanish in the aching eyes.”

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shed

Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pour

Their sin to earth — and with low drooping head

Receive the solemn blessing, and implore

Its grace — then soberly with chasten’d tread,

They meekly press towards the gusty door

With humbled eyes that go to graze upon

The lowly grass — like him of Babylon.

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

The lowly grass! — O water-constant mind!

Fast-ebbing holiness! — soon-fading grace

Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind

Through the low porch had wash’d it from the face

For ever! — How they lift their eyes to find

Old vanities! — Pride wins the very place

Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now

With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow!

And she, the lonely widow,


And she, the lonely widow,

And lo! with eager looks they seek the way

Of old temptation at the lowly gate;

To feast on feathers, and on vain array,

And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state

Of jewel-sprinkled locks — But where are they,

The graceless haughty ones that used to wait

With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen’d eye? —

None challenge the old homage bending by.

To feast on feathers, and on vain array


To feast on feathers, and on vain array

In vain they look for the ungracious bloom

Of rich apparel where it glow’d before —

For Vanity has faded all to gloom,

And lofty Pride has stiffen’d to the core,

For impious Life to tremble at its doom —

Set for a warning token evermore,

Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise

Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond’ring eyes.

To feast on feathers, and on vain array


To feast on feathers, and on vain array

The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn,

But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair;

The solemn clerk goes lavender’d and shorn

Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair; —

And ancient lips that pucker’d up in scorn,

Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray’r;

And in the garden-plot, from day to day,

The lily blooms its long white life away.

To feast on feathers, and on vain array


To feast on feathers, and on vain array

And where two haughty maidens used to be,

In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod,

Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly,

Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod;

There, gentle stranger, thou may’st only see

Two sombre Peacocks.

Age, with sapient nod

Marking the spot, still tarries to declare

How they once lived, and wherefore they are there.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:55