My football's laid upon the shelf; I am a shuttlecock myself The world knocks to and fro;-- My archery is all unlearn'd, And grief against myself has turn'd My arrows and my bow!

VII.

No more in noontide sun I bask; My authorship's an endless task, My head's ne'er out of school: My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight, I have too many foes to fight, And friends grown strangely cool!

VIII.

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!

IX.

No skies so blue or so serene As then;--no leaves look half so green As clothed the playground tree!

All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my heart to know That change resides in me!

X.

Oh for the garb that marked the boy, The trousers made of corduroy, Well ink'd with black and red; The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill-- It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head!

XI.

Oh for the riband round the neck!

The careless dogs-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?

XII.

Oh for that small, small beer anew!

And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue That wash'd my sweet meals down; The master even!--and that small Turk That fagg'd me!--worse is now my work-- A fag for all the town!

XIII.

Oh 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 resign'd Beneath the stroke, and even find Some sugar in the cane!

XIV.

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!

The Fairy Tales in school-time read, By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun!

The angel form that always walk'd In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd Exactly like Miss Brown!

XV.

The _omne bene_--Christmas come!

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!

XVI.

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 sweetmeats, almost sweeter still, No 'satis' to the 'jams'!--

XVII.

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!

BALLAD.

It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the Time of Roses,-- We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet:-- Oh, no--the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the Time of Roses,-- We pluck'd them as we pass'd.--

What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud?

And when I ask'd the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last.-- It was the Time of Roses,-- We plucked them as we pass'd!

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY.

I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: "Fly through the world, and I will follow thee, Only for looks that may turn back on me;

"Only for roses that your chance may throw-- Though withered--Twill wear them on my brow, To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain,-- Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again."

"Thy love before thee, I must tread behind, Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind; But trust not all her fondness, though it seem, Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream."

"Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet; But smiles betray, and music sings deceit; And words speak false;--yet, if they welcome prove, I'll be their echo, and repeat their love."