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DAYS OF MY YOUTH.

There is no part of life so happy as youth; the following lines, written by a celebrated man now living in England, show with what regret he looks back to the pleasant days of his boyhood.

Oh! 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 slipp'd 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!

'T was 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 whoop,

And seldom with a call !

My foot-ball'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 grow straugely 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 trowsers 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 dogs' 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.

THE RATS AND THE BARLEY. Some Rats, having found a sack of barley deposited in the corner of a garret, enjoyed themselves every day, in feasting abundantly upon it, till it was all gone. The winter now set in, but they had no provision, and none could they get at in the neighborhood. “How foolish were we,” said one of them, " that we did not eat less at a time, and then we might have had plenty to last us all the winter."

THE BRAMIN.

Near the banks of the Ganges, a mighty river held sacred by the Hindoos, natives of the great peninsula of Hindostan, is a stupendous cataract, that rushes with impetuous force over the scattered fragments of the rocks, dashing its silver foam from fall to fall, till it reaches a basin below, whence it flows in a rapid stream, through shady woods of tall forest trees, till its waters are lost in the Ganges.

At the bottom of the lower fall, is a great hollow cavern, venerated by the Hindoos with religious superstition, from the inside of which, the descent of the cataract is seen in full view, forming part of the arc of a great circle. This cavern was the favorite retreat, for solemn meditation, of an aged bramin, who officiated as chief priest in a temple raised at a few miles' distance on the shore of a sacred stream.

The temple, or pagoda, as it is often called, is a stone building, rising to a great height in the form of a pyramid, with a flat top. The outside is richly adorned with bass relievos, and close by it is a tank or reservoir of water, with steps descending to the bottom, for the convenience of the devotees who attend the temple.

Sydney, an English gentleman, of an enlightened mind, and engaging manners, who was travelling in pursuit of knowledge through the interior parts of the

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