Gives lectures on elliptic springs,
And follows hounds 'cross country.
Sir Roger had a Briton's pride
In freedom, plough, and furrow ;—
No fortune hath Sir Roger's bride,
Except a rotten borough:
Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs,
Contentment and a cottage ;-
His Laura brings a pair of plums
To boil the poor man's pottage.
My rural coz, who loves his peace,
And swore at scientifics,
Is flirting with a lecturer's niece,
Who construes hieroglyphics:
And Foppery's fool, who hated Blues
Worse than he hated Holborn,
Is raving of a pensive Muse,
Who does the verse for Colburn.
And Vyvyan, Humour's crazy child,—
Whose worship, whim, or passion,
Was still for something strange and wild,
Wit, wickedness, or fashion,-
Is happy with a little Love,
A parson's pretty daughter,
As tender as a turtle-dove,-
As dull as milk and water.
And Gerard hath his Northern Fay-
His nymph of mirth and haggis;
And Courtenay wins a damsel gay
Who figures at Colnaghi's;
And Davenant now has drawn a prize,—
I hope and trust, a Venus,
Because there are some sympathies-
As well as leagues-between us.
Thus north and south, and east and west,
The chimes of Hymen dingle;
But I shall wander on, unblest,
And singularly single;
Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained,
And often captivated,
Yet, save on circuit-unretained,
And, save at chess-unmated.
Yet, oh!-if Nemesis with me
Should sport, as with my betters,
And put me on my awkward knee
To prate of flowers and fetters,-
I know not whose the eyes should be
To make this fortress tremble;
But yesternight I dreamed,-ah me!
Whose they should most resemble!
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 supped 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 whispered 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-limbed, 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 all,”
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 Medler loathed false quantities,
As much as false professions.
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic;
And Medler's feet repose, unscanned,
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,
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:
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