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CCCLXVII.

SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS.
TWELVE years ago I made a mock

Of filthy trades and traffics :
I wonder'd 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 pains and pleasures
Those whisper'd syllables have brought

From Memory's hoarded treasures !
The fields, the farms, the bats, the books,

The glories and disgraces,
The voices of dear friends, the looks

Of old familiar faces !
Kind Mater smiles again to me,

As bright as when we parted;
I seem again the frank, the free,

Stout-limb’d, and simple-hearted!
Pursuing every idle dream,

And shunning every warning;
With no hard work but Bovney stream,

No chill except Long Morning :
Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball

That rattled like a rocket;
Now hearing Wentworth’s “Fourteen ali !"

And striking for the pocket;
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch,-

Now drinking from the pewter;
Now leaping over Chalvey ditch,

Now laughing at my tutor.
Where are my friends ? I am alone;

No playmate shares my beaker:
Some lie beneath the churchyard 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 Medlar loathed false quantities,

As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,

A magistrate pedantic;
And Medlar'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 Darrell studies, week by week,

His Mant, and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
Is
very

rich at Canton.
And I am eight-and-twenty now ;-

The world's cold chains have 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 Boodle'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 Hoby 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 Poets' 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 play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,

And call the milk-maids Houris, –
That I could be a boy again,-
A happy boy,—at Drury's.

Winthrop M. Praed.

CCCLXVIII.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM

ACADEMY

Ah me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds.

My pensive thought recalls !
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,

Within yon irksome walls?
Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row !

Its chimneys in the rear !
And there's the iron.rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky

And turn'd our table-beer!
There I was birch'd! there I was bred !
There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woeful tree !
The weary tasks I used to con !--
The hopeless leaves I wept upon !-

Most fruitless leaves to me!

The summon'd class !-the awful bow !-
I wonder who is master now

And wholesome anguish sheds !

How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys

Have nothing in their heads ! And Mrs. S * * *?-Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet

Some favour'd two or three,The little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour,

And swill her prize—bohea ?
Ah, there's the playground ! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime

So wildly I have read !
Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream

Of Love and Cottage-bread ?
Who struts the Randall of the walk ?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?
Where's Poynter ? Harris? Bowers ? Chase ?

Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ?
Alack ! they're gone-a thousand ways !
And some are serving in “the Greys,"

And some have perish'd young !-
Jack Harris weds his second wife ;
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life ;

And blithe Carew-is hung ! Grave Bowers teaches ABC To Savages at Owyhee ;

Poor Chase is with the worms !-All, all are gone-the olden breed !New crops of mushroom boys succeed,

“And push us from our forms ! Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about,

At play where we have play'd ! Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine Their crony arms; som in the shine, –

And some are in the shade !

Lo there what mix'd conditions run !
The orphan lad ; the widow's son ;

And Fortune's favour'd care-
The wealthy-born, for whom she hath
Mac-Adamised the future path-

The Nabob's pamper'd heir !
Some brightly starr'd-some evil born, -
For honour some, and some for scorn,

For fair or foul renown !
Good, bad, indiff'rent--none may 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 stead !
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 !
Whilst thou canst 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 ?

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