I limp in agony—I wheeze and cough;
And quake with Ague, that great Agitator,
Nor dream, before July, of leaving off
My Respirator.
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. THOMAS HOOD.
Ah 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,
Within yon irksome walls!
Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turned our table-beer!
There I was birched! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning's woeful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!—
The hopeless leaves I wept upon!—
Most fruitful leaves to me!
The summoned class!—the awful bow!—
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
And Mrs. S * * *?—Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the palor) yet
Some favored two or three—
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize—bohea?