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

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

O, WHEN 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 eye,
To cast a look behind!

A hoop was an eternal round

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 slipt 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 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,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
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!

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,

And friends grown 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 would not feel a pang
Though these 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 riband round the neck!
The careless dog's-ears apt to deck
My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth?

O, for that small, small beer anew!

'And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue

That washed my sweet meals down;

The master even!

That fagged me !

and that small Turk

worse is now my workA 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 Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!
The Fairy Tales in school-time read,
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !
The angel form that always walked
In all my dreams, and looked and talked
Exactly like Miss Brown!

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 sweet-meats 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 eye,
To cast a look behind!

NOTES.

LYCUS THE CENTAUR.

Lycus was dedicated by the poet to his friend and connection, J. H. Reynolds, Esq.

ODE TO RAE WILSON.

This ode was first published in the London Athenæum, where it appeared with the following introductory letter.

"To the Editor of the Athenæum.

"MY DEAR SIR: The following Ode was written anticipating the tone of some strictures on my writings, by the gentleman to whom it is addressed. I have not seen his book; but I know by hearsay that some of my verses are characterized as 'profaneness and ribaldry,' — citing, in proof, the description of a certain sow, from whose jaw a cabbage-sprout

Protruded as the dove so stanch

For peace supports an olive-branch.'

If the printed works of my Censor had not prepared me for any misapplication of types, I should have been surprised by this misapprehension of one of the commonest emblems. In some cases the dove unquestionably stands for the Divine Spirit; but the same bird is also a lay representative of the peace of this world, and, as such, has figured time out of mind in allegorical pictures. The sense in which it was used by me is plain from the context; at least, it would be plain to any one but a fisher for faults, predisposed to carp at some things, to dab at others, and to flounder in all. But I am possibly in error. It is the female swine, perhaps, that is profaned in the eyes of the Oriental tourist. Men find strange ways of marking their intolerance; and the spirit is certainly strong enough, in Mr. W.'s works, to set up a creature as sacred, in sheer opposition to the Mussulman, with whom she is a beast of abomination. It would only be going the whole sow.

"I am, dear sir, yours very truly,

"THOS. HOOD."