Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine Their crony arms; some in the shine, And some are in the shade! Lo there what mixed conditions run! The nabob's pampered heir! Some brightly starred some evil born, — - For honor some, and some for scorn, For fair or foul renown! Good, bad, indifferent none they 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 A foolish wish! There's one at hoop; And one that curvets in and out, Would I were in his steed! Yet he would gladly halt and drop While thou canst be a horse at school Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; And dost thou think that years acquire That manhood's mirth? - O, go thy ways 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 Then be contented. Thou hast got Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast- A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. O, WHEN I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, A hoop was an eternal round But now those past delights I drop; And careful thoughts the string! My marbles, once my bag was stored, My playful horse has slipt his string! And harnessed to the law! My kite how fast and far it flew! 'Twas 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, And seldom with a call! My football's laid upon the shelf; The world knocks to and fro ;- No more in noontide sun I bask: My head's ne'er out of school; And friends grown strangely cool! The very chum that shared my cake It makes me shrink and sigh :- 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, O, for the garb that marked the boy, Well inked with black and red! Repose upon my head! O, for the riband round the neck! My book and collar both! How can this formal man be styled O, for that small, small beer anew! O, for the lessons learned by heart! Should mark those hours again; The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The omne bene. Christmas come! - The prize of merit, won for home Merit had prizes then! But now I write for days and days, Without the silver pen! Then home, sweet home! the crowded coachThe joyous shout the loud approach -- |