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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 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!
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!
The' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed !
The Fairy Tales in schooltime 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!

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 hors like rams' !
The meeting sweet that made me thrill-
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,

No “ satis” to the “jams!”

The «

38

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

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 !

TO THE OWL.

The following lines were written in reference to the murder of

Mr. Weare, a few years ago.

Owl! that lovest the boding sky!

In the murky air,

What saw'st thou there? For I heard, through the fog, thy screaming cry!

The maple's head

Was glowing red,
And red were the wings of the autumn sky;

But a redder gleam

Rose from the stream
That dabbled my feet, as I glided by !”
Owl! that lovest the stormy sky!

Speak, oh! speak!

What crimson'd thy beak,
And hung on the lids of thy staring eye?

6 'Twas blood, 'twas blood !

And it rose like a flood,
And for this I scream'd as I glided by!"
Owl! that lovest the midnight sky!

Again, again,
Where are the twain ?

Look! while the moon is hurrying by !-

“ In the thicket's shade

The one is laid ;You may see, through the boughs, his moveless eye!" Owl! that lovest the darken'd sky!

A step beyond

From the silent pond
There rose a low and a murmuring cry :--

« On the water's edge,

Through the trampled sedge, A bubble burst, and gurgled by;

My eyes were dim,

But I look'd from the brim,
And I saw, in the weeds, a dead man lie !"

Owl! that lovest the moonless sky!

Where the casements blaze

With the faggot's rays,
Look! oh, look! what seest thou there?

Owl! what's this,

That snort and hiss,
And why do thy feathers shiver and stare ?-

6 'Tis he! 'tis he!

He sits 'mid the three,
And a breathless woman is on the stair!"

Owl! that lovest the cloudy sky?

Where clank the chains

Through the prison panes, What there thou hearest tell to me?

“ In her midnight dream,

'Tis a woman's scream, And she calls on one-on one of the Three !"

Look in once more,

Through the grated door: “ 'Tis a soul that prays in agony !”

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Owl! that hatest the morning sky!

On thy pinions gray,

Away,-away! I must pray, in charity,

From midnight chime,

To morning prime, Miserere, Domine !

ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM.

BY L. E. L.

His was a harp just fit to pour

Its music to the wind and wave; He had a right to tell their fame

Who stood himself amid the brave.
The first time that I read his strain

There was a tempest in the sky,
And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash,

Were like dark ships and battle cry.
I had forgot my woman's fears,

In thinking on my country's fame, Till almost I could dream I saw

Her colours float o'er blood and flame.

Died the high song as dies the voice

Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
And died the tempest too, and left

A gentle twilight hour behind.
Then paused I o'er some sad wild notes,

Sweet as the spring bird's lay withal,
Telling of hopes and feelings past,

Like stars that darken'd in their fall.

ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM.

41

Hopes perishing from too much light,

Exhausted by their own excess;' Affections trusted, till they turn’d,

Like Marah's wave, to bitterness. And is this, then, the curse that clings

To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling ? Is this the cloud that destiny

Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing? It is—it is! tread on thy way,

Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold; Look not up from the sullen path

That lead's to this world's idol-gold.
And close thy hand, and close thy heart,

And be thy very soul of clay,
And thou wilt be the thing the crowd

Will worship, cringe to, and obey.
But look thou upon Nature's face,

As the young poet loves to look ; And lean thou where the willow leans,

O'er the low murmur of the brook. Or worship thou the midnight sky,

In silence at its moonlit hour; Or let a single tear confess

The silent spell of music's power. Or love, or feel, or let thy soul

Be for one moment pure or free, Then shrink away at once from life,«

Its path will be no path for thee.
Pour forth thy fervid soul in song,

There are some that may praise thy lays;
But of all earth's dim vanities,
The
very

earthliest is praise.

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