The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 281, November 3, 1827

    PHILO.

A RETROSPECT

Oh, when 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!

A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;—
But now those past delights I drop;
My head alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!

My marbles—once my bag was stor'd,—
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,—
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipt his string.
Forgotten all his capering,
And harness'd to the law!

My kite—how fast and fair it flew.
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,—
The tasks I wrote—my present dreams
Will never soar so high!

My joys are wingless all, and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
And seldom with a call!

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 sorrow and my bow!

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!

The very chum that shar'd 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!

No skies so blue or so serene
As these;—no leaves look half so green
As cloth'd the play-ground tree!
All things I lov'd are altered so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me.

O, for the garb that mark'd 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!

O, 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!

The "Arabian Nights'" rehears'd 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!

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.

Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach—
The joyous shout—the loud approach—
The winding horn like ram's!
The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,