And Darrel studies, week by week, 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: But often when the cares of life, When duns await my waking, Or Hobby in a hurry, For hours and hours, I think and talk 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 and 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! THE VICAR. W. MACKWORTH PRAED, SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste And roads as little known as scurvy, Back flew the bolt of lisson lath; Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveler up the path, Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle : And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlor steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected!" Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow; Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end, He had not gained an honest friend, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge: If he departed as he came, With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth the traveler was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. His talk was like a stream which runs It passed from Mohammed to Moses: Beginning with the laws which keep He was a shrewd and sound divine, The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermons never said or showed That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned them, For all who understood, admired, And some who did not understand them. He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises and smaller verses; He did not think all mischief fair, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The welcome which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Cæsar-or of Venus: From him I learned the rule of three, To steal the staff he put such trust in; When he began to quote Augustin. Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled: You reach it by a carriage entry: Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear THE BACHELOR'S CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. W. M. THACKERAY. In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks, Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms, A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms! I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair, |