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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 stored-
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
With Theseus for a taw!

My playful horse has slipp'd his string,
Forgotten all his capering,

And harness'd to the law!

My kite-how fast and far 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 whoop,
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 arrows 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 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!

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 alter'd so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

Oh, for the garb that mark'd the boy-
The trowsers made of corduroy,

Well link'd with black and red;-
The crownless hat ne'er deem'd an ill-
It only let the sunshine still
Repose upon my head!

Oh, for the riband round the neck!
The careless dog's 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?

Oh, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that milk 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!

Oh, for the lessons learn'd 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!

Th' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!
The Fairy Tales in school-time read,
By stealth, 't wixt 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 coachThe 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!"

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!

HOOD.

BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found,

He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

"Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he,
Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men, said he,
Were slain in the great victory.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for.

It was the English, Kaspar cried,
That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said, quoth he,
That 't was a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by,

They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant died.

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.
Why 'i was a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay-nay-my little girl, quoth he,
It was a famous victory.

And every body praised the duke.
Who such a fight did win.
But what good came of it at last?
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why that I cannot tell, said he,
But 't was a famous victory.

SOUTHEY.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the an cient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power;

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