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A hoop was an eternal sound
Of pleasure; in those days I found

A top a joyous thing;
But now those past delights I drop;
My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string.

My marbles

once my bag was stored. Now I must play with Elgin's lord, *

With Theseus † for a taw!
My playful horse has slipped his string,
Forgotten all his capering,

And harnessed to the law !

My kite

- how fast and far it flew ! Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew

My pleasure from the sky! Twas papered o'er with studious themesThe 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;
Joy never cometh with a whoop,

And seldom with a call !

My football 's laid upon the shelf;
I am a shuttlecock myself,

The world knocks to and fro;
My archery is all unlearned,
And grief against myself has turned
My arrows and

my

bow.

* Lord Elgin's collection of ancient marbles in the British Museum + The head of Theseus for a marble to play with.

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task;

My head 's ne'er out of school ;
My heart is pained with scorn and slight,
I have too many foes to fight;

My friends grow strangely cool.

The very chum, that shared my cake,
Holds out so cold a hand to shake,

It makes me shrink and sigh;
On this I will not dwell and hang,
The changeling will not feel a pang

Though this should meet his eye.

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!
Nor does it ease my heart to know

That change resides in me.

O for the garb that marked the boy,
The trousers made of corduroy,

Well inked with black and red;
The crownless hat ne'er deemed an ill
It only let the sunshine still

Repose upon my head.

O for the ribbon round the neck !
The careless dogs' ears apt to deck

My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled
Mere.y an Alexandrine child

A boy of larger growth?

© for that small, small beer anew; And {heaven's own type) that mild sky blue

That washed my sweet meals down;
The master even ! — and that small Turk
That fagged me! Worse is now my work

A fag for all the town.

O for the lessons learned by heart !
Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again,
I'd kiss the rod, and be resigned
Beneath the stroke - and even find

Some sugar in the cane.

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”!

119. Happiness.

What is earthly happiness ? — that phantom, of which we hear so much and see so little; whose promises are con

Farged, beat, compelled to drudge. Fag, a laborious drudge, a drudge for another. In the English schools, this term is applied to a boy who does menial services for another of a higher form or class. Omne bene, su prome good — Satis, sufficiency, enough.

stantly given, and constantly broken, but as constantly be lieved; that cheats us with the sound instead of the substance, and with the blossom instead of the fruit. Anticipation is her herald, but Disappointment is her companion; the first addresses itself to our imagination, that would believe; but the latter to our experience, that must.

Happiness, that grand mistress of the ceremonies in the dance of life, impels us through all its mazes and meanderinys, but leads none of us by the same route. Aristippus pursued her in pleasure, Socrates in wisdom, and Epicurus in both ; she received the attentions of each, but bestowed her endearments on none of them. Warned by their failure, the Stoic adopted another mode of preferring his suit; he thought, by slandering, to obtain her; by shunning, to win her; and proudly presumed, that, by fleeing her, she would turn and follow him.

She is deceitful as the calm that precedes the hurricane; smooth as the water at the edge of the cataract; and beautifuil as the rainbow, that smiling daughter of the storm; but, like the image in the desert, she tantalizes us with a delusion that distance creates and that contiguity destroys; yet, often, when unsought, she is found, and when unexpected, often obtained; while those who search for her the most diligently, fail the most, because they seek her where she is not. Anthony sought her in love; Brutus in glory; Cæsar, in dominion. The first found disgrace; the second, disgust; the last, ingratitude; and each, destruction.

To some she is more kind, but not less cruel ; she hands them her cup, and they drink even to stupefaction, until they doubt whether they are men with Philip; or dream that they are gods — with Alexander. On some she smiles, as on Napoleon, with an aspect more bewitching than that of an Italian sun;, but it is only to make her frown the more terrible, and, by one short caress, to imbitter the pangs of separation.

Ambition, avarice, love, -- all these seek her, and her alone. Alas! they are neither presented to her nor will

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she come to them. She despatches, howe ier, to them her envoys.

To ambition, she sends power, to avarice, wealth and to love, she sends jealousy. Alas! what are these but

many other names for vexation or disappointment? Neither is she to be won by flatteries nor bribes: she is to be gained by waging war against her enemies, much sooner than by paying any particular court to herself. Those that conquer her adversaries will find that they need not go to her, for she will come unto them.

None bid so high for her as kings; few are more willing, none more able, to purchase her-alliance at the fullest price. But she has no more respect for kings than for their subjects; she mocks them, indeed, with the empty show of a visit, by sending to their palaces all her equipage, her pomp, and her train; but she comes not herself. What, then, detains her? She is travelling incognito, to hold an interview with Contentment, and to partake of a conversation and a dinner of herbs, with some humble, but virtuous peasant, in a cottage.

120. Westminster Abbey.

He who first raised from Gothic gloom
Our tongue

here Chaucer finds a. tomb!
Here gentle Spenser, foulest stain
Of his own Gloriana's reign!
And he who mocked at Art's control,
The mighty master of the soul,
Shakspeare, our Shakspeare! - By his side
The man who poured his mighty tide!
The brightest union genius wrought
Was Garrick's voice and Shak.speare's thought.
Here Milton's heaven-strung lyre reposes !
Here Dryden's meteor brilliance closes'

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