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Thomas Hood
23 May 1799 – 3 May 1845
Poetry Listing
Please Note: This list is not comprehensive, but is an ongoing work of the love of poetry.
Within this area you will be able to read, and give your thoughts on the poetry listed.
Please, if you find an error, let me know.
Read More About Thomas Hood below poetry list
| | Poem Title | First Lines | Period | # Lines | # Reads | | 1: | A Black Job. | The history of human-kind to trace, | | 236 | 489 | | 2: | A Fairy Tale. | On Hounslow Heath - and close beside the road, | | 125 | 435 | | 3: | A Few Lines On Completing Forty-Seven. | When I reflect with serious sense, | | 16 | 504 | | 4: | A Flying Visit. | The by-gone September, | | 264 | 417 | | 5: | A Friendly Address To Mrs. Fry In Newgate. | I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name! | | 152 | 945 | | 6: | A Lay Of Real Life | Who ruined me ere I was born, | | 52 | 393 | | 7: | A Parental Ode To My Son, Aged Three Years And Five Months. | Thou happy, happy elf! | | 57 | 444 | | 8: | A Parthian Glance. | Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, | | 56 | 410 | | 9: | A Plain Direction. | In London once I lost my way | | 112 | 432 | | 10: | A Public Dinner. | At seven you just nick it, | | 178 | 434 | | 11: | A Report From Below! | As Mister B. and Mistress B. | | 83 | 412 | | 12: | A Retrospective Review. | Oh, when I was a tiny boy, | | 102 | 419 | | 13: | A Sailor's Apology For Bow-Legs. | There's some is born with their straight legs by natur | | 88 | 416 | | 14: | A Serenade. | Lullaby, oh, lullaby! | | 36 | 417 | | 15: | A Singular Exhibition At Somerset House. | On that first Saturday in May, | | 92 | 443 | | 16: | A Storm At Hastings, And The Little Unknown. | Twas August - Hastings every day was filling | | 240 | 402 | | 17: | A Tale Of A Trumpet. | Of all old women hard of hearing, | | 812 | 452 | | 18: | A True Story. | Of all our pains, since man was curst, | | 228 | 400 | | 19: | A Waterloo Ballad. | To Waterloo, with sad ado, | | 96 | 408 | | 20: | Agricultural Distress. - A Pastoral Report. | One Sunday morning - service done | | 179 | 390 | | 21: | An Address To The Steam Washing Company. | Mr. Scrub - Mr. Slop - or whoever you be! | | 103 | 381 | | 22: | An Open Question. | What! shut the gardens; lock the latticed gate! | | 153 | 427 | | 23: | Anticipation.[1] | I had a vision in the summer light | | 36 | 432 | | 24: | As It Fell Upon A Day | Oh! what's befallen Bessy Brown, | | 24 | 394 | | 25: | Autumn | The Autumn skies are flush'd with gold, | | 12 | 556 | | 26: | Autumn. | The Autumn is old, | | 20 | 547 | | 27: | Ballad. | It was not in the Winter | | 20 | 423 | | 28: | Ballad. | She's up and gone, the graceless girl, | | 24 | 464 | | 29: | Ballad. | Spring it is cheery, | | 24 | 440 | | 30: | Ballad. | Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse | | 48 | 424 | | 31: | Bianca's Dream. - A Venetian Story. | Bianca! - fair Bianca! - who could dwell | | 272 | 381 | | 32: | Birthday Verses. | Good morrow to the golden morning, | | 12 | 461 | | 33: | Craniology. | Tis strange how like a very dunce, | | 114 | 356 | | 34: | Death's Ramble.[1] | One day the dreary old King of Death | | 56 | 393 | | 35: | Domestic Asides; Or, Truth In Parentheses. | I really take it very kind, | | 32 | 383 | | 36: | Etching Moralised. To A Noble Lady. | Fairest Lady and Noble, for once on a time, | | 240 | 390 | | 37: | Fair Ines. | O Saw ye not fair Ines? | | 48 | 411 | | 38: | Faithless Nelly Gray. - A Pathetic Ballad. | Ben Battle was a soldier bold, | | 68 | 400 | | 39: | Faithless Sally Brown.[1] - An Old Ballad. | Young Ben he was a nice young man, | | 68 | 385 | | 40: | False Poets And True. - To Wordsworth. | Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, | | 14 | 409 | | 41: | Flowers. | I will not have the mad Clytie, | | 24 | 449 | | 42: | Hero And Leander. - To S. T. Coleridge. | It is not with a hope my feeble praise | | 794 | 386 | | 43: | Hit Or Miss. | One morn - it was the very morn | | 340 | 393 | | 44: | Huggins And Duggins. - Pastoral, After Pope. | Two swains or clowns - but call them swains | | 80 | 368 | | 45: | Hymeneal Retrospections. | O Kate! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife! | | 36 | 366 | | 46: | Hymn To The Sun. | Giver of glowing light! | | 25 | 434 | | 47: | I Love Thee. | I love thee - I love thee! | | 24 | 453 | | 48: | I Remember, I Remember. | I remember, I remember, | | 32 | 446 | | 49: | I'm Not A Single Man."[1] - Lines Written In A Young Lady's Album. | A pretty task, Miss S - - , to ask | | 48 | 432 | | 50: | John Day. - A Pathetic Ballad. | John Day he was the biggest man | | 68 | 415 | | 51: | Lament For The Decline Of Chivalry.[1] | Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, | | 96 | 418 | | 52: | Lear. | A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown, | | 14 | 394 | | 53: | Letter Of Remonstrance From Bridget Jones To The Noblemen And Gentlemen Forming The Washing Committee. | It's a shame, so it is, - men can't Let alone | | 105 | 390 | | 54: | Lieutenant Luff. | All you that are too fond of wine, | | 64 | 418 | | 55: | Lines On Seeing My Wife And Two Children Sleeping In The Same Chamber.[1] | And has the earth lost its so spacious round, | | 13 | 391 | | 56: | Lines To A Lady.[1] On Her Departure For India. | Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, | | 40 | 385 | | 57: | Lines To Mary. - Old Bailey Ballads. | O Mary, I believed you true, | | 52 | 371 | | 58: | Lines. | Let us make a leap, my dear, | | 16 | 400 | | 59: | Lycus The Centaur. | Who hath ever been lured and bound by a spell | | 429 | 424 | | 60: | Mary's Ghost. - A Pathetic Ballad. | Twas in the middle of the night, | | 48 | 402 | | 61: | Midnight. | Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep | | 14 | 391 | | 62: | Miss Kilmansegg And Her Precious Leg.[1] | To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree | | 2743 | 359 | | 63: | Morning Meditations. | Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy | | 40 | 388 | | 64: | Ode On A Distant Prospect Of Clapham Academy.[1] | Ah me! those old familiar bounds! | | 120 | 430 | | 65: | Ode To Captain Paery[1] | Parry, my man! has thy brave leg | | 192 | 375 | | 66: | Ode To Joseph Grimaldi, Senior. | Joseph! they say thou'st left the stage, | | 120 | 399 | | 67: | Ode To Melancholy. | Come, let us set our careful breasts, | | 122 | 412 | | 68: | Ode To Mr. Graham,[1] - The Aeronaut. | Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, | | 242 | 401 | | 69: | Ode To Peace. - Written On The Night Of My Mistress's Grand Rout. | Oh Peace, oh come with me and dwell | | 47 | 473 | | 70: | Ode To Rae Wilson, Esq. To The Editor Of The Athenæum. | A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, | | 501 | 371 | | 71: | Ode To Richard Martin, Esq.,[1] M.P. For Galway. | How many sing of wars, | | 81 | 462 | | 72: | Ode To Sir Andrew Agnew, Bart.[1] | O Andrew Fairservice, - but I beg pardon, | | 105 | 382 | | 73: | Ode To The Advocates For The Removal Of Smith-Field Market. | O Philanthropic men! | | 96 | 351 | | 74: | Ode To The Great Unknown.[1] | Thou Great Unknown! | | 275 | 411 | | 75: | Ode To The Moon. | Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go | | 82 | 426 | | 76: | Ode To W. Kitchener, M.D.[1] | Oh! multifarious man! | | 184 | 372 | | 77: | Ode. Autumn. | I saw old Autumn in the misty morn | | 62 | 554 | | 78: | Our Village. - By A Villager. | Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, | | 47 | 417 | | 79: | Playing At Soldiers. | What little urchin is there never | | 96 | 409 | | 80: | Queen Mab. | A little fairy comes at night, | | 36 | 456 | | 81: | Rural Felicity. | Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that's country born, | | 90 | 390 | | 82: | Ruth. | She stood breast high amid the corn | | 20 | 386 | | 83: | Sally Simpkin's Lament; Or, John Jones's Kit-Cat-Astrophe. | Oh! what is that comes gliding in, | | 40 | 397 | | 84: | Serenade. | Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how | | 16 | 449 | | 85: | Shooting Pains. | If I shoot any more I'll be shot, | | 80 | 386 | | 86: | Song. | The stars are with the voyager | | 16 | 424 | | 87: | Song. | O Lady, leave thy silken thread | | 24 | 420 | | 88: | Song. | There is dew for the flow'ret | | 16 | 437 | | 89: | Sonnet To Ocean.[1] | Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love, | | 14 | 377 | | 90: | Sonnet. | By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts, | | 14 | 419 | | 91: | Sonnet. | Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak, | | 14 | 359 | | 92: | Sonnet. | The world is with me, and its many cares, | | 14 | 406 | | 93: | Sonnet. | My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed | | 14 | 414 | | 94: | Sonnet. Death. | It is not death, that sometime in a sigh | | 14 | 385 | | 95: | Sonnet. For The 14th Of February. | No popular respect will I omit | | 14 | 430 | | 96: | Sonnet. On Receiving A Gift. | Look how the golden ocean shines above | | 14 | 403 | | 97: | Sonnet. Silence. | There is a silence where hath been no sound, | | 14 | 392 | | 98: | Sonnet. To An Enthusiast. | Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth, | | 14 | 386 | | 99: | Sonnet. To My Wife. | The curse of Adam, the old curse of all, | | 14 | 370 | | 100: | Sonnet. Written In A Volume Of Shakspeare. | How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky | | 14 | 404 | | 101: | Sonnet. Written In Keats' "Endymion." | I saw pale Dian, sitting by the brink | | 14 | 382 | | 102: | Stanzas.[1] | Still glides the gentle streamlet on, | | 16 | 442 | | 103: | Stanzas.[1] | Is there a bitter pang for love removed, | | 21 | 419 | | 104: | Stanzas.[1] | Farewell, Life! My senses swim, | 1845 | 16 | 409 | | 105: | The Angler's Farewell. | Well! I think it is time to put up! | | 60 | 383 | | 106: | The Assistant Drapers' Petition.[1] | Pity the sorrows of a class of men, | | 56 | 426 | | 107: | The Bachelor's Dream. | My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd, | | 88 | 417 | | 108: | The Bridge Of Sighs. | One more Unfortunate, | | 106 | 396 | | 109: | The Broken Dish. | What's life but full of care and doubt | | 16 | 387 | | 110: | The Carelesse Nurse Mayd. | I sawe a Mayd sitte on a Bank, | | 16 | 396 | | 111: | The China-Mender. | Good-Morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call! Well! here's another pretty job! | | 66 | 339 | | 112: | The Compass, With Variations.[1] | One close of day - 'twas in the Bay | | 190 | 376 | | 113: | The Death-Bed.[1] | We watch'd her breathing through the night. | | 16 | 391 | | 114: | The Demon-Ship. | Twas off the Wash - the sun went down - the sea look'd black and grim, | | 76 | 373 | | 115: | The Departure Of Summer. | Summer is gone on swallows' wings, | | 159 | 371 | | 116: | The Desert-Born[1] | Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills, | | 217 | 402 | | 117: | The Dream Of Eugene Aram.[1] | Twas in the prime of summer time, | | 216 | 357 | | 118: | The Drowning Ducks. | Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond | | 84 | 399 | | 119: | The Duel. - A Serious Ballad. | In Brentford town, of old renown, | | 68 | 415 | | 120: | The Elm Tree. - A Dream In The Woods. | Twas in a shady Avenue, | | 496 | 388 | | 121: | The Epping Hunt.[1] | John Huggins was as bold a man | | 489 | 367 | | 122: | The Exile. | The swallow with summer | | 24 | 429 | | 123: | The Fall. | Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, | | 32 | 360 | | 124: | The Forge.[1] A Romance Of The Iron Age. | Like a dead man gone to his shroud, | | 484 | 396 | | 125: | The Forlorn Shepherd's Complaint.[1] - An Unpublished Poem, From Sydney. | Vell! Here I am - no Matter how it suits | | 44 | 392 | | 126: | The Forsaken. | The dead are in their silent graves, | | 20 | 454 | | 127: | The Fox And The Hen. - A Fable. | One day, or night, no matter where or when, | | 72 | 416 | | 128: | The Ghost. - A Very Serious Ballad. | In Middle Row, some years ago, | | 60 | 386 | | 129: | The Green Man. | Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man | | 225 | 437 | | 130: | The Haunted House[1] - A Romance. | Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, | | 358 | 325 | | 131: | The Irish Schoolmaster. | Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think | | 262 | 359 | | 132: | The Key. - A Moorish Romance. | The Moor leans on his cushion, | | 152 | 427 | | 133: | The Lady's Dream. | The lady lay in her bed, | | 102 | 342 | | 134: | The Last Man. | Twas in the year two thousand and one, | | 222 | 406 | | 135: | The Lay Of The Laborer. | A spade! a rake! a hoe! | | 98 | 383 | | 136: | The Lee Shore. | Sleet! and Hail! and Thunder! | | 24 | 352 | | 137: | The Lost Heir. | One day, as I was going by | | 90 | 357 | | 138: | The Lover's Progress. | Twas in that memorable year | | 102 | 403 | | 139: | The Mary. - A Sea-Side Sketch. | Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide | | 88 | 374 | | 140: | The Mermaid Of Margate.[1] | On Margate beach, where the sick one roams, | | 124 | 430 | | 141: | The Pauper's Christmas Carol. | Full of drink and full of meat, | | 63 | 406 | | 142: | The Plea Of The Midsummer Fairies.[1] | Twas in that mellow season of the year | | 1134 | 380 | | 143: | The Poacher. - A Serious Ballad. | Bill Blossom was a nice young man, | | 52 | 377 | | 144: | The Poet's Portion. | What is a mine - a treasury - a dower | | 30 | 407 | | 145: | The Progress Of Art. | Oh happy time! - Art's early days! | | 96 | 388 | | 146: | The Sea Of Death. - A Fragment. | Methought I saw | | 38 | 353 | | 147: | The Song Of The Shirt. | With fingers weary and worn, | | 89 | 323 | | 148: | The Stag-Eyed Lady. - A Moorish Tale. | Ali Ben Ali (did you never read | | 166 | 336 | | 149: | The Sun Was Slumbering In The West. | The sun was slumbering in the West. | | 32 | 433 | | 150: | The Supper Superstition. - A Pathetic Ballad. | Twas twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes, | | 68 | 412 | | 151: | The Sweeps Complaint. | A voice cried Sweep no more! | | 91 | 369 | | 152: | The Two Peacocks Of Bedfont. | Alas! That breathing Vanity should go | | 209 | 343 | | 153: | The Two Swans. - A Fairy Tale. | Immortal Imogen, crown'd queen above | | 279 | 420 | | 154: | The University Feud.[1] | As latterly I chanced to pass | | 134 | 372 | | 155: | The Volunteer. | The clashing of my armor in my ears | | 4 | 399 | | 156: | The Water Lady.[1] | Alas, the moon should ever beam | | 24 | 422 | | 157: | The Water Peri's Song. | Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter. | | 12 | 380 | | 158: | The Wee Man. - A Romance. | It was a merry company, | | 39 | 366 | | 159: | The Widow. | One widow at a grave will sob | | 128 | 423 | | 160: | The Workhouse Clock. - An Allegory. | There's a murmur in the air, | | 85 | 334 | | 161: | Those Evening Bells. | Those evening bells, those evening bells, | | 12 | 359 | | 162: | Tim Turpin. - A Pathetic Ballad. | Tim Turpin he was gravel blind, | | 88 | 397 | | 163: | Time, Hope, And Memory. | I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, | | 20 | 405 | | 164: | To ---- | Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow; | | 24 | 403 | | 165: | To ---- | I gaze upon a city, | | 56 | 423 | | 166: | To A Child Embracing His Mother. | Love thy mother, little one! | | 25 | 386 | | 167: | To A Cold Beauty. | Lady, wouldst thou heiress be | | 24 | 394 | | 168: | To A False Friend. | Our hands have met, but not our hearts; | | 16 | 377 | | 169: | To A Sleeping Child. I. | Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep, | | 14 | 416 | | 170: | To A Sleeping Child. II. | Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd | | 14 | 401 | | 171: | To An Absentee. | O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea, | | 16 | 383 | | 172: | To Fancy. | Most delicate Ariel! submissive thing, | | 14 | 376 | | 173: | To Henrietta,[1] On Her Departure For Calais. | When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, | | 36 | 376 | | 174: | To Hope. | Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, | | 62 | 409 | | 175: | To Mary Housemaid, On Valentine's Day. | Mary, you know I've no love nonsense, | | 20 | 356 | | 176: | To Minerva | My temples throb, my pulses boil, | | 8 | 60 | | 177: | To My Daughter[1] On Her Birthday. | Dear Fanny! nine long years ago, | | 24 | 347 | | 178: | Verses In An Album. | Far above the hollow | | 14 | 370 |
About:
Thomas Hood was a British humorist and poet. His son, Tom Hood, became a well known playwright and editor.
Early life
He was born in London to Thomas Hood and Elizabeth Sands in the Poultry (Cheapside) above his father's bookshop. Hood's paternal family had been Scottish farmers from the village of Errol near Dundee. The Elder Hood was a partner in the business of Verner, Hood, and Sharp, and was a member of the Associated booksellers. Hood's son, Tom Hood, claimed that his grandfather had been the first to open up the book trade with America and he had great success in new editions of old books.
"Next to being a citizen of the world," writes Thomas Hood in his Literary Reminiscences, "it must be the best thing to be born a citizen of the world's greatest city." On the death of her husband in 1811, Mrs Hood moved to Islington, where Thomas Hood had a schoolmaster who, appreciating his talents, "made him feel it impossible not to take an interest in learning while he seemed so interested in teaching." Under the care of this "decayed dominie", he earned a few guineas—his first literary fee—by revising for the press a new edition of Paul and Virginia.
Hood left his private school master at 14 years of age and was admitted soon after into the counting house of a friend of his family, where he "turned his stool into a Pegasus on three legs, every foot, of course, being a dactyl or a spondee."; However, the uncongenial profession affected his health, which was never strong,and he began to study engraving. The exact nature and course of his study is unclear and various sources tell different stories. Reid emphasizes his work under his maternal uncle Robert Sands. But no papers of apprenticeship exist and we also know from his letters that he studied with a Mr. Harris. Furthermore, Hood's daughter in her Memorials mentions her father's association with the Le Keux brothers who were successful engravers in the City. The labour of engraving was no better for his health than the counting house had been, and Hood was sent to his father's relations at Dundee, Scotland. Here he stayed in the house of his maternal aunt, Jean Keay, for some months and then, after a falling out with her he moved on to the boarding house of one of her friends, Mrs Butterworth, where he lived for the rest of his time in Scotland. In Dundee, Hood made a number of close friends with whom he continue to correspond for many years, led a healthy outdoor life, and also became a large and indiscriminate reader. It was also during his time here that Hood began to seriously write poetry and had his first published work, a letter to the editor of the Dundee Advertiser.
Early writings and introduction to literary society
Before long Hood contributed humorous and poetical articles to the provincial newspapers and magazines. As a proof of his literary vocation, he used to write out his poems in printed characters, believing that that process best enabled him to understand his own peculiarities and faults, and probably unaware that Samuel Taylor Coleridge had recommended some such method of criticism when he said he thought "print settles it." On his return to London in 1818 he applied himself to engraving, enabling him later to illustrate his various humours and fancies by quaint devices.
In 1821, John Scott, the editor of the London Magazine, was killed in a duel, and the periodical passed into the hands of some friends of Hood, who proposed to make him sub-editor. His installation into this post at once introduced him to the literary society of the time; and in becoming the associate of John Hamilton Reynolds, Charles Lamb, Henry Cary, Thomas de Quincey, Allan Cunningham, Bryan Procter, Serjeant Talfourd, Hartley Coleridge, the peasant-poet John Clare and other contributors to the magazine, he gradually developed his own powers.
Marriage and family life
He was married in May 1824, and Odes and Addresses—his first work—was written in conjunction with his brother-in-law J.H. Reynolds, a friend of John Keats. S. T. Coleridge wrote to Charles Lamb averring that the book must be his work. The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies (1827) and a dramatic romance, Lamia, published later, belong to this time. The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies was a volume of serious verse. But he was known as a humorist, and the public rejected this little book almost entirely.
Hood was particularly fond of practical jokes which he was said to have enjoyed perpetrating on members of his family. In the Memorials of Thomas Hood, which was largely written by his daughter, there is a story of Hood playing one such joke on his wife. He instructs Mrs. Hood to purchase some fish for the evening meal from the woman who regularly comes to the door selling her husband’s catch. But he warns her to watch for any plaice that “has any appearance of red or orange spots, as they are a sure sign of an advanced stage of decomposition.” Of course when the fish-seller comes Mrs. Hood refuses to purchase her plaice she exclaims “My good woman… I could not think of buying any plaice with those very unpleasant red spots!” Hood was much amused by the fish-sellers expression of amazement at complete ignorance of the appearance of plaice.
The series of the Comic Annual, dating from 1830, was a kind of publication at that time popular, which Hood undertook and continued, almost unassisted, for several years. Under that somewhat frivolous title he treated all the leading events of the day in caricature, without personal malice, and with an under-current of sympathy. The attention of the reader was distracted, by the incessant use of puns, of which Hood had written in his own vindication:
"However critics may take offence,
A double meaning has double sense."
He was probably aware of this danger. As he gained experience as a writer, his diction became simpler.
Later writings
In another annual called the Gem appeared the poem on the story of Eugene Aram. He started a magazine in his own name, for which he secured the assistance of many literary men, but which was mainly sustained by his own activity. From a sick-bed, from which he never rose, he conducted this work, and there composed well known poems, such as the "Song of the Shirt" (which appeared anonymously in the Christmas number of Punch, 1843 and was immediately reprinted in The Times and other newspapers across Europe. It was dramatised by Mark Lemon as The Sempstress, was printed on broadsheets, cotton handkerchiefs and was highly praised by many of the literary establishment, including Charles Dickens.) Likewise "The Bridge of Sighs" and "The Song of the Labourer" which are translated into German by Ferdinand Freiligrath. They are plain, solemn pictures of conditions of life which appeared shortly before Hood's own death in May 1845.
Hood was associated with the Athenaeum, started in 1828 by James Silk Buckingham, and he was a regular contributor for the rest of his life. Prolonged illness brought on straitened circumstances; and application was made by a number of Hood's friends to Sir Robert Peel to place Hood's name on the pension list with which the British state rewarded literary men. Peel was known to be an admirer of Hood's work and in the last few months of Hood's life he gave Jane Hood the sum of 100 Pounds without her husband's knowledge, to alleviate the family's debts. The pension that Peel's government had bestowed upon Hood was continued to his wife and family after his death. Jane Hood, who also suffered from poor health and had expended tremendous energy tending to her husband in his last year, died only 18 months after Hood. The pension then ceased but Lord John Russell, grandfather of the philosopher Bertrand Russell, made arrangements for a fifty pound pension for the maintenance of Hood's two children, Francis and Tom.
Nine years later a monument, raised by public subscription, in the cemetery of Kensal Green, was inaugurated by Richard Monckton Milnes.
Writer and friend of Hood, William Makepeace Thackeray, gave this assessment of Thomas Hood:"Oh sad, marvelous picture of courage, of honesty, of patient endurance, of duty struggling against pain! ... Here is one at least without guile, without pretension, without scheming, of a pure life, to his family and little modest circle of friends tenderly devoted."
Source:- Wikipedia.
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