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My football's laid upon the shelf;—
I am a shuttlecock myself

The world knocks to and fro;—
My archery is all unlearned,
And grief against myself has turned
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 pained 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 altered so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

Oh, for the garb that marked the boy,
The trowsers made of corduroy,

Well inked with black or red;

The crownless hat, ne'er deemed an ill,—

It only let the sunshine still

Repose upon my head!

Oh, for the ribbon round the neck!
The careless dog's-ears apt to deck

My book and collar both!

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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 washed 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 learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resigned
Beneath the stroke, and even find
Some sugar in the cane!

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed,
The Fairy Tales in school-time read
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun!
The angel form that always walked
In all my dreams, and looked and talked
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 horns like rams!

The meeting sweet that made me thrill,

The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,

No "satis" to the "jams!"

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!

Literary Souvenir.

THE FAIR REAPER.

BY R. P. GILLIES, ESQ.

SHE scarcely seemed of mortal birth,
But like a visionary form,
That came to bless our lowly earth;-
Unmindful of the storm,

She stood, and oft her golden hair
Did float in the perturbed air.

Her voice was soothing to my heart,
And could celestial joy dispense ;—
For still it sweetly seemed to impart,
، No storms will injure innocence, '
As, bending o'er the golden grain,
She

sung the wildly plaintive strain.

Thus, while to mark the moonlight pale,
I seek the crystal streams,

Her beauteous form is seen to sail

In fancy's airy dreams,

And hovers in the silvery ray,

The guardian spirit of my way!

TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS AT ATHENS.*

BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ.

THOU art not silent!-oracles are thine
Which the wind utters, and the spirit hears,
Lingering, 'mid ruined fane and broken shrine,
O'er many a tale and trace of other years!
Bright as an ark, o'er all the flood of tears
That warps thy cradle-land-thine earthly love-
Where hours of hope, 'mid centuries of fears,

Have gleamed, like lightnings through the gloom above,
Stands, roofless to the sky, thy house, Olympian Jove!

Thy columned aisles with whispers of the past
Are vocal!-and, along thine ivied walls,
While Elian echoes murmur in the blast,
And wild flowers hang, like victor-coronals,
In vain the turbaned tyrant rears his halls,
And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters!-
Now, even now, the beam of promise falls
Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters,
And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters!

Thou art not silent!-when the southern fair,
Ionia's moon, looks down upon thy breast,
Smiling, as pity smiles above despair,
Soft as young beauty, soothing age to rest,
Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest;
And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours!
Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest,
Her lay-half hope, half sorrow-from the flowers,
And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers!

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And round thine altar's mouldering stones are born
Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept
From him who waked Aurora every morn,
And sad as those he sung her till she slept!
A thousand, and a thousand years have swept
O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy spring-
A wreck in youth!-nor vainly hast thou kept
Thy lyre! Olympia's soul is on the wing,
And a new Iphitus has waked beneath its string!

THE HOROLOGE.

BY THOMAS DOUBLEDAY, ESQ.

ONCE, by the dusk light of an ancient hall,
I saw a Horologe. Its minutes fell
Upon the roused ear, with a drowsy knell,
That he who passed attended to the call.

I looked and lo! five antics over all.

One moved, and four were motionless. The one
Was scythed and bald-head Time; and he moved on,
Sweep after sweep-and each a minute's fall.

-The four were kings.- Sceptres they bore, and globes,
And ermined crowns. Before that old Man dim
They stood, but not in joy. At sight of Time,
They had stiffened into statues in their robes;
Fear-petrified. Let no man envy him
Who smiles at that grave Homily sublime!

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