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! Yet he would gladly halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van-- To toil, to tug. O little fool! While thou can be a horse at school To wish to be a man! 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 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 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!-- The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis 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, Like balls with no rebound! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Toward that merry ground! Then be contented. Thou hast got 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! 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; And 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.