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!
While thou can 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?

That manhood's mirth ?-O, go thy ways

Thy taws are brave!-thy tops are rare!-

Our tops are spun with coils of care,

Our dumps are no delight!—

The Elgin marbles are but tame,

And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead,

Like balls with no rebound!

And often with a faded eye

We look behind, and send a sigh
Toward that merry ground!

The most of heaven in thy young lot;

There's sky-blue in thy cup!

Thou 'lt find thy manhood all too fast--
Soon come, soon gone! and age at last
A sorry breaking up!

SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS.

W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

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 forms, the beasts, the books,
The glories and disgraces,

The voices of dear friends, the looks
Of old familiar faces.

Where are my friends?—I am alone,
No playmate shares my beaker-
Some lie beneath the church-yard 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 chain has 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 Germyn-street, And sip my hock at Doodle'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 Hobby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beaulieu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby:
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk-
Or 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 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!

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 chain has 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 Germyn-street, And sip my hock at Doodle'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 Hobby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beaulieu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby:
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk-
Or 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 and broken noses;

And Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,

pray

And call the milk-maids Houris;

That I could be a boy again—

A happy boy at Drury's!