Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing
To wear a crown—to be a king!
And sleep on regal down!
Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares;
Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!
And dost thou think that years acquire
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood's mirth?—O, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when——PLAYS,
And see how FORCED our fun!
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
Toward that merry ground!
Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast—
Soon come, soon gone! and age at last
A sorry BREAKING UP!
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 wrote delightful sapphics:
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,
I supped with fates and furies;
Twelve years ago I was a boy,
A happy boy at Drury's.
Twelve years ago!—how many a thought
Of faded pains and pleasures,
Those whispered syllables have brought
From memory's hoarded treasures!
The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books.
The glories and disgraces,
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 tragedy,
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,
Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medler loathed false quantities,
As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic;
And Medler's feet repose unscanned
Beneath the wide Atlantic.