Grave Bowers teaches A B C
To Savages at Owhyee;

Poor Chase is with the worms !-
All are gone-the olden breed!—
New crops of mushroom boys succeeds,
"And push us from our forms!"

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, 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!

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-

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 they lack!
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;-

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

The marble taw to speed!

And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow-cob about,

Would I were in his steed!

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;
An 1 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.

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,

Does Dr. Martext's duty;

And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,
Is married to a beauty;

And Darrel studies, week by week,
His Mant and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now—

The world's cold chain has bound me; And darker shades are on my brow, And sadder scenes around me: In Parliament I fill my seat, With many other noodles; And lay my head in Germyn-street, And sip my hock at Doodle's.

But often when the cares of life,
Have set my temples aching,
When visions haunt me of a wife,
When duns await my waking,
When Lady Jane is in a pet,
Or Hobby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beaulieu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby:
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk-
Or shiver in the lobby;

I wish that I could run away

From House, and court, and levee, Where bearded men appear to-day, Just Eton boys, grown heavy;

That I could bask in childhood's sun,
And dance o'er childhood's roses;
And find huge wealth in one pound one,
Vast wit and broken noses;

And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,

And call the milk-maids Houris;

That I could be a boy again

A happy boy at Drury's!

THE VICAR.

W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,

And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way between

St. Marys' Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the Green, And guided to the Parson's Wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lisson lath;

Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle,

Led the lorn traveler up the path,

Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlor steps collected,

Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,
"Our master knows you; you 're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,

Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;"
The lady lay her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or papist, saint or sinner,

He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge:—

If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,-
Good sooth the traveler was to blame,
And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses;
It slipped from politics to puns:

It passed from Mohammed to Moses: