Smitten by breezes from the land of plague, O! where's the Spring in a rheumatic leg, I limp in agony—I wheeze and cough; What wonder if in May itself I lack A peg for laudatory verse to hang on?—— Spring, mild and gentle !-yes, a Spring-heeled Jack To those he sprang on. In short, whatever panegyrics lie In fulsome odes too many to be cited, The tenderness of Spring is all my eye, And that is blighted! ODE. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. Ан me! those old familiar bounds! That classic house, those classic grounds, My pensive thought recalls! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine, Ay, that's the very house! I know And there's the iron rod so high, That drew the thunder from the sky And turned our table-beer! THOMAS HOOD, There I was birched! there I was bred! From Learning's woeful tree! The hopeless leaves I wept upon !— The summoned class!-the awful bow!- And Mrs. S***?-Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the palor) yet Some favored two or threeThe little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour, And swill her prize-bohea? Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime, Who sits there now, and skims the cream Who struts the Randall of the walk? Who scoops the light canoe? What early genius buds apace? Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew? Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways! And some are serving in "the Greys," And some have perished young!— Jack Harris weds his second wife And blithe Carew-is hung! Grave Bowers teaches ABC Poor Chase is with the worms!- Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about, At play where we have played! Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine Lo there what mixed conditions run! Some brightly starred-some evil born— Good, bad, indifferent-none they lack! Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, Some tease the future tense, and plan A foolish wish! There's one at hoop; The marble taw to speed! And one that curvets in and out, Would I were in his steed! Yet he would gladly halt and drop With this world's heavy van— Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing And sleep on regal down! Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; And dost thou think that years acquire 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 Then be contented. Thou hast got There's sky-blue in thy cup! Thou 'lt find thy manhood all too fast- 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 knew the streets of Rome and Troy, Twelve years ago I was a boy, Twelve years ago!-how many a thought Those whispered syllables have brought 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 rondo; And some draw sword for liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes, A magistrate pedantic; And Medler's feet repose unscanned Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, |