My kite-how fast and far it flew !
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!

'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote-my present dreams Will never soar so high!

My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
And seldom with a call!

My football's laid upon the shelf;
I am a shuttlecock myself

The world knocks to and fro ;-
My archery is all unlearn'd,

And grief against myself has turn'd
My arrows and my bow!

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task,
My head's ne'er out of school:
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight
I have too many foes to fight,

And friends grown strangely cool!

The very chum that shared my cake
Holds out so cold a hand to shake,

It makes me shrink and sigh:-
:-
On this I will not dwell and hang,
The changeling would not feel a pang
Though these should meet his eye!

No skies so blue or so serene
As then ;-no leaves look half so green
As clothed the play-ground tree!
All things I loved are alter❜d so,

Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

Oh, for the garb that mark'd the boy,
The trousers made of corduroy,
Well ink'd with black and red;

The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill----
It only let the sunshine still

Repose upon my head!

Oh, for the riband round the neck!
The careless dog's-ears apt to deck
My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth?

Oh, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue
That wash'd my sweet meals down;
The master even !-and that small Turk
That fagg'd me!-worse is now my work-
A fag for all the town!

Oh, for the lessons learn'd by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart
Should mark those hours again;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resign'd
Beneath the stroke, and even find
Some sugar in the cane!

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed:
The Fairy Tales in school-time read,
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !
The angel form that always walk'd
In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd
Exactly like Miss Brown!

The omne bene-Christmas come!
The prize of merit, won for home--

Merit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days,
For fame-a deal of empty praise,
Without the silver pen!

Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach-
The joyous shout-the loud approach-
The winding horns like rams' !
The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,
No "satis" to the "jams!"

When that I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

A MORNING THOUGHT.

No more, no more will I resign
My couch so warm and soft,
To trouble trout with hook and line,
That will not spring aloft.

With larks appointment one may fix
To greet the dawning skies,
But hang the getting up at six
For fish that will not rise !

ON THE ART-UNIONS.

That picture-raffles will conduce to nourish Design, or cause good coloring to flourish, Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing, But surely Lotteries encourage Drawing!

THE LOST HEIR.

"Oh where, and oh where

Is my bonny laddie gone?"-OLD SONG.

ONE day, as I was going by

That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaubed with grease and mud.

She turned her East, she turned her West,

Staring like Pythoness possest,

With streaming hair and heaving breast
As one stark mad with grief.

This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man—
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.

At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,

Or female Ranter moved to preach,
She
gave her" sorrow words."

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild!

Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets like a crying lost-looking child?

Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way—

A Child as is lost about London streets, and es pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver-get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab!

You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young

drab.

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt pies.

I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all the other young boys,

With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys.

When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done!

La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street; O serjeant M'Farlane! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the prigs;

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;