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Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained,

And often captivated,
Yet, save on circuit—unretained,

And, save at chess——unmated.

Yet oh !--if Nemesis with me

Should sport, as with my betters,
And put me on my awkward knee

To prate of flowers and fetters,-
I know not whose the eyes should be

To make this fortress tremble ;
But yesternight I dreamed,-ah me!

Whose they should most resemble ! (NOVEMBER 20, 1827.)


"Floreat Etona."

Twelve years ago I made a mock

Of filthy trades and traffics :
I wondered what they meant by stock;

I wrote delightful sapphics :
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,

I supp'd with fates and furies;
Twelve years ago I was a boy,

A happy boy, at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!-how many a thought

Of faded pains and pleasures Those whispered syllables have brought

From memory's hoarded treasures ! The fields, the farms, the bats, the books,

The glories and disgraces,
The voices of dear friends, the looks

Of old familiar faces !

Kind Mater smiles again to me,

As bright as when we parted;
I seem again the frank, the free,
Stout limbed, and simple-hearted;

Pursuing every idle dream,

And shunning every warning; With no hard work but Boyney Stream,

No chill except Long Morning :

Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball,

That rattled like a rocket ·
Now hearing Wentworth’s “Fourteen all,”

And striking for the pocket :
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch,

Now drinking from the pewter ;
Now leaping over Chalvey ditch,

Now laughing at my tutor.

Where are my friends ?-I am alone,

No playmate shares my beaker-Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,

And some before the Speaker; And some compose a tragedy,

And some compose a rondo; And some draw sword for liberty,

And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes,

Without the fear of sessions ;
Charles Medler loath'd false quantities,

As much as false professions.
Now Mill keeps order in the land,

A magistrate pedantic;
And Medler's feet repose, unscann'd,

Beneath the wide Atlantic

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,

Does Dr. Martext's duty;
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,

Is married to a beauty;
And Darrel studies, week by week,

His Mant, and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,

Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now

The world's cold chains have bound me; And darker shades are on my brow,

And sadder scenes around me:
In Parliament I fill my seat,

With many other noodles;
And lay my head in Jermyn-street,

And sip my hock at Boodle's.

But often, when the cares of life

Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife,

When duns await my waking,
When Lady Jane is in a pet,

Or Hoby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,

Or Beaulieu spoils a curry:

* For hours and hours I think and talk

Of each remembered hobby;
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk-

To shiver in the lobby;

I wish that I could run away

From house, and court, and levee, Where bearded men appear to-day,

Just Eton boys, grown heavy;

That I could bask in childhood's sun,

And dance o'er childhood's roses ;
And find huge wealth in one pound one,

Vast wit in broken noses ;
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,

And call the milk-maids houris;
That I could be a boy again,

A happy boy at Drury's !


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