Oh for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue
That wash'd my sweet meals down;
The master even!-and that small Turk
That fagg'd me !-worse is now my work-
A fag for all the town!

Oh for the lessons learn'd by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart
Should mark those hours again ;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resign'd
Beneath the stroke, and even find
Some sugar in the cane!

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!
The Fairy Tales in school-time read,
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun!
The angel form that always walk'd
In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd
Exactly like Miss Brown!

The omne bene-Christmas come!
The prize of merit, won for home-
Merit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days,
For fame-a deal of empty praise,
Without the silver pen!

Then "home, sweet home!" the crowded coach

The joyous shout-the loud approach—

The winding horns like rams'!

The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still,

No "satis" to the "jams!"—

When that I was a tiny boy

My days and nights were full of joy,

My mates were blithe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eve, To cast a look behind!

THE lady lay in her bed,

Her couch so warm and soft,

But her sleep was restless and broken still;
For turning often and oft

From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd,
And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she startled up,

And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw

Some dreadful phantom there

And then in the pillow she buried her face
From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,

Her terror was so extreme;

And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt

Kept a tremulous gleam;

And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried :"Oh me! that awful dream!

"That weary, weary walk,

In the churchyard's dismal ground!

And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round,-

Death, death, and nothing but death,
In every sight and sound!

"And oh! those maidens young,

Who wrought in that dreary room,

With figures drooping and spectres thin,

And cheeks without a bloom;

And the Voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride, We haste to an early tomb!

"For the pomp and pleasure of Pride,

We toil like Afric slaves,

And only to earn a home at last,

Where yonder cypress waves;' And then they pointed-I never saw A ground so full of graves!

"And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow;

Coffin after coffin still,

A sad and sickening show;

From grief exempt, I never had dreamt
Of such a World of Woe!

"Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,
That grieve this earthly ball-

Disease and Hunger, and Pain, and Want,
But now I dreamt of them all !

"For the blind and the cripple were there,
And the babe that pined for bread,
And the houseless man, and the widow poor
Who begged-to bury the dead;

The naked, alas, that I might have clad,
The famish'd I might have fed!

"The sorrow I might have sooth'd,
And the unregarded tears;

For many a thronging shape was there,
From long forgotten years,

Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Who raised my childish fears!

"Each pleading look, that long ago
I scann'd with a heedless eye,
Each face was gazing as plainly there,
As when I pass'd it by:

Woe, woe for me if the past should be
Thus present when I die!

"No need of sulphurous lake, No need of fiery coal,

But only that crowd of human kind

Who wanted pity and dole

In everlasting retrospect—

Will wring my sinful soul!

"Alas! I have walk'd through life
Too heedless where I trod;

Nay, helping to trample my fellow worm,
And fill the burial sod-

Forgetting that even the sparrow falls
Not unmark'd of God!