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Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about,

At play where we have played!

Some hop, some run, (some fall), some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
And some are in the shade!

Lo there what mixed conditions run !
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
And Fortune's favored care

The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Macadamized the future path

The nabob's pampered heir!

Some brightly starred

some evil born,

For honor some, and some for scorn,

For fair or foul renown!

Good, bad, indifferent none they lack! Look, here's a white, and there's a black! And there's a creole brown!

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish their frugal sires would keep
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 can 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?-O, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when

- plays,

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
To 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 fastSoon come, soon gone! and age at last A sorry breaking up!

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

O, 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 harnessed 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 papered 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 unlearned,
And grief against myself has turned
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 pained 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 altered so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

O, for the garb that marked the boy,
The trousers made of corduroy,

Well inked with black and red!

The crownless hat, ne'er deemed an ill

It only let the sunshine still
Repose upon my head!

O, 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?

O, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue
That washed my sweet meals down;
The master even ! — and that small Turk

That fagged me! worse is now my work-
A fag for all the town!

O, for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart
Should mark those hours again;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resigned
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 walked
In all my dreams, and looked and talked
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!

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