Enquiring if I would live over my youth again.

Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o'er
The morning hours of life?

Nay William nay, not so !
In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun

I do not wish again
The changeful April day.
Nay William nay, not so!
Safe haven'd from the sea
I would not teropt again

The uncertain ocean's wrath.
Praise be to him who made me what I am,

Other I would not be.

Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk

Of days that are no more?
When in his own dear home

The traveller rests at last,
And tells how often in his wanderings

The thought of those far off
Has made his


o'erflow With no unmanly tears ;

Delighted he recalls
Thro' what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod.
But ever when he tells of perils past,

And troubles now no more,
His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy

Flows rapid to his heart.

No William no, I would not live again

The morning hours of life,
I would not be again
The slave of hope and fear,

I would not learn again
The wisdom by Experience hardly taught.

To me the past presents
No object for regret;
To me the present gives
All cause for full content ;

The future,-it is now the chearful noon, And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze

With eyes alive to joy;

When the dark night descends, My weary lids I willingly shall close,

Again to wake in light.


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In the eighteenth century, the author of the following parody, (not a Christ-Church-man) being at Oxford, saw at a distance twelve persons running at full speed towards ChristChurch Cloisters, which they entered: curiosity led him to follow them; when looking through an opening in the door of a certain Commoner's room, he saw twelve pale figures resembling men; they were all employed about a youth, and as they worked they sung the following song : when they had finished they put up their implements, and each taking his own, they scowered away, six towards Peckwater, and six towards the Great Quadrangle.

Now the sky begins to clear,

Haste, the powder-bag prepare ;
Showers of sweets and perfumes dear

Tremble in the thickened air.

Blackened ivory is the comb,

With which thy dusky locks we strain;
Working many a Louses doom,

Kreepers woe and Krawlers bane.

See the frosted texture grow,

'Tis of Marechalle powder made; And the tail that plays below,

Hangs from **** ***** head.

White stitch'd shoes ne'er dipt in dirt,

Scud the Quadrangle along; String in bow-knot neatly girt,

Keep the quarters close and strong.

Harris * Tom with unkempt head,

Charles * the Scout in hurry see; Join the beauteous work to aid,

'Tis the work of friperie!

Now the ruddy sun is set,

Chairs must shiver, students sing, Cap with clattering cap shall meet,

Bottles crash and glasses ring!

Gently spread the perfumed fat,

Let us go and let us fly ;
Where the youths expectant wait,

For us to powder us to tie.

* Two persons well known at Christ-Church,

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