The last sad thought, so oft delayed,— "These joys are only born to fade."

Ye Guardians of my earliest days,
Ye Patrons of my earliest lays,
Custom reminds me, that to you
Thanks and farewell to-day are due.
Thanks and farewell I give you,-not
(As some that leave this holy spot)
In laboured phrase and polished lie
Wrought by the forge of flattery,
But with a heart that cannot tell
The half of what it feels so well.
If I am backward to express,
Believe, my love is not the less;
Be kind as you are wont, and view
A thousand thanks in one Adieu.
My future life shall strive to show
I wish to pay the debt I owe ;
The labours that ye give to May
September's fruits shall best repay.

And you, my friends, who loved to share Whate'er was mine of sport or care, Antagonists at fives or chess,

Friends in the play-ground or the press,

I leave ye now; and all that rests
Of mutual tastes, and loving breasts,

Is the lone vision that shall come,
Where'er my studies and my home,
To cheer my labour and my pain,
And make me feel a boy again.

Yes! when at last I sit me down,
A scholar, in my cap and gown,—
When learned doctrines, dark and deep,
Move me to passion or to sleep,-
When Clio yields to logic's wrangles,
And Long and Short give place to angles,——
When stern Mathesis makes it treason
To like a rhyme, or scorn a reason—
With aching head and weary wit
Your parted friend shall often sit,
Till Fancy's magic spell hath bound him,
And lonely musings flit around him;
Then shall ye come, with all your wiles
Of gladdening sounds and warming smiles,
And nought shall meet his eye or ear,—
Yet shall he deem your souls are near.

Others may

clothe their valediction
With all the tinsel charms of fiction ;
And one may sing of Father Thames,
And Naiads with a hundred names,
And find a Pindus here, and own
The College pump a Helicon,

And search for gods about the College,
Of which old Homer had no knowledge;
And one may eloquently tell

The triumphs of the Windsor belle,
And sing of Mira's lips and eyes

In oft-repeated ecstacies;

Oh! he hath much and wondrous skill
To paint the looks that wound and kill,
As the poor maid is doomed to brook,
Unconsciously, her lover's look,

And smiles, and talks, until the poet
Hears the band play, and does not know it.
To speak the plain and simple truth,—
I always was a jesting youth,
A friend to merriment and fun,
No foe to quibble and to pun;
Therefore I cannot feign a tear;
And, now that I have uttered here

A few unrounded accents, bred

More from the heart than from the head,

Honestly felt, and plainly told,

My lyre is still, my fancy cold.

POEMS OF LIFE AND MANNERS.

PART II.

(1826-1832.)