| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 woful tree!— | 15 |
| The weary tasks I used to con! | |
| The hopeless leaves I wept upon! | |
| Most fruitless leaves to me! | |
| |
| The summoned class!—the awful bow!— | |
| I wonder who is master now | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| (Like Pallas in the parlor) yet | |
| Some favored two or three,— | |
| The little Crichtons of the hour, | |
| Her muffin-medals that devour, | |
| And swill her prize—Bohea? | 30 |
| |
| Ay, there ’s the playground! there ’s the lime, | |
| Beneath whose shade in summer’s prime | |
| So wildly I have read!— | |
| Who sits there now, and skims the cream | |
| Of young Romance, and weaves a dream | 35 |
| Of love and cottage-bread? | |
| |
| Who struts the Randall of the walk? | |
| Who models tiny heads in chalk? | |
| Who scoops the light canoe? | |
| What early genius buds apace? | 40 |
| 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!— | 45 |
| Jack Harris weds his second wife; | |
| Hal Baylis drives the wane of life; | |
| And blithe Carew—is hung! | |
| |
| Grave Bowers teaches A B C | |
| To savages at Owhyee; | 50 |
| Poor Chase is with the worms!— | |
| All, all are gone,—the olden breed!— | |
| New crops of mushroom boys succeed, | |
| “And push us from our forms!” | |
| |
| Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, | 55 |
| And leap, and skip, and mob about, | |
| At play where we have played! | |
| Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine | |
| Their crony arms; some in the shine, | |
| And some are in the shade! | 60 |
| |
| Lo! there what mixed conditions run: | |
| The orphan lad; the widow’s son; | |
| And fortune’s favored care,— | |
| The wealthy born, for whom she hath | |
| Macadamized the future path,— | 65 |
| The nabob’s pampered heir! | |
| |
| Some brightly starred, some evil born; | |
| For honor some, and some for scorn; | |
| For fair or foul renown! | |
| Good, bad, indifferent,—none may lack! | 70 |
| Look, here ’s a White, and there ’s a Black! | |
| And there ’s a Creole brown! | |
| |
| Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, | |
| And wish their frugal sires would keep | |
| Their only sons at home; | 75 |
| Some tease the future tense, and plan | |
| The full-grown doings of the man, | |
| And pant for years to come! | |
| |
| A foolish wish! There ’s one at hoop; | |
| And four at fives! and five who stoop | 80 |
| The marble taw to speed! | |
| And one that curvets in and out, | |
| Reining his fellow cob about,— | |
| Would I were in his steed! | |
| |
| Yet he would gladly halt and drop | 85 |
| That boyish harness off, to swop | |
| With this world’s heavy van,— | |
| To toil, to tug. O little fool! | |
| While thou canst be a horse at school, | |
| To wish to be a man! | 90 |
| |
| 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 | 95 |
| 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 | 100 |
| 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!— | 105 |
| The Elgin marbles are but tame, | |
| And ’t is 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 | 110 |
| Like balls with no rebound! | |
| And often with a faded eye | |
| We look behind, and send a sigh | |
| Towards that merry ground! | |
| |
| Then be contented. Thou hast got | 115 |
| 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! | 120 |
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