Come shower or sunshine-hope or fear,

The palace or the plough,

My heart and lute are broken here

I'm not a lover now!

Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow,

My day is night, my bloom is blight,
I'm not a lover now!

SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS.

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 paints and pleasures
Those whispered syllables have brought
From memory's hoarded treasures!

The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books,
The glories and disgraces,

The voices of dear friends, the looks.

Of old familiar faces.

Where are my

friends?-I am alone,

No playmate shares my beaker

Some lie beneath the church-yard 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,

And I am eight-and-twenty now—

The world's cold chain has 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 Doodle'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 Hobby in a hurry,

When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beaulieu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remember'd 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 pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,

And call the milk-maids houris;

That I could be a boy again—

A happy boy at Drury's!

TO A LADY.

WHAT are you, lady?—naught is here
To tell us of your name or story;
To claim the gazer's smile or tear,

To dub you whig, or daub you tory.

It is beyond a poet's skill,

To form the slightest notion, whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, Or look upon one moon together.

You're very pretty!—all the world

Are talking of your bright brow's splendor, And of your locks, so softly curled,

And of your hands, so white and slender: Some think you're blooming in Bengal ; Some say you're blowing in the city; Some know you're nobody at all;

I only feel, you're very pretty.

But bless my heart! it's

very wrong:

You're making all our belles ferocious;

Anne " never saw a chin so long;"

And Laura thinks your dress" atrocious;"