Their only sons at home;—
Some tease the future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come!
A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;
And four at fives! and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed!
And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow Cob about,-
Would I were in his steed!
Yet he would gladly halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop
With this world's heavy van-
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou canst be a horse at school
To wish to be a man!
Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing
To wear a crown,-to be a king!
And sleep on regal down!
Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares;
Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!
And dost thou think that years acquire
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood's mirth ?-Oh, go thy ways
And see how forced our fun!
Thy taws are brave!-thy tops are rare!—
Our tops are spun with coils of care,
Our dumps are no delight!—
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And 'tis at best a sorry game
fly the Muse's kite!
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead
Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground!
Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast-
Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last
A sorry breaking up!
Он, when 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 hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;-
But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!
My marbles-once my bag was stored,-
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipt his string,
Forgotten all his capering,
And harness'd to the law!
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!
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!
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