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Pale autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest, The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest, And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest, And moisten'st the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.

THE HOLLY TREE.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly tree?

The eye that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves.

Ordered by an Intelligence so wise,

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound,

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralise;

And in the wisdom of this holly tree

Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly leaves a sober hue display

Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,

So would I seem among the

young and

gay

More grave than they,

That in my age as cheerful I might be

As the green winter of the holly tree,

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

Ah! that I were once more a careless child!

COLERIDGE.

Oн when I was a tiny boy

My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blythe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the teardrop 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

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- once my bag was stored, Now I must play with Elgin's lord,

With Theseus for a taw!

My playful horse has slipped his string, Forgotten all his capering,

And harnessed to the law!

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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 whoop,
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 would not dwell and hang,
The changeling will not feel a pang
Though this 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!

Oh, for the garb that marked the boy
The trowsers 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!

Oh, 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?

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