.

Grave Bowers teaches A B C
To savages at Owhyee;
Poor Chase is with the worms!--
All, all are gone--the olden breed!--
New crops of mushroon boys succeed,
"And push us from our _forms_!"

X.

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
And leap, and skip, and mob about,
At play where we have play'd!
Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,--
And some are in the shade!

XI.

Lo there what mix'd conditions run!
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
And Fortune's favor'd care--
The wealthy-born, for whom she hath
Mac-Adamised the future path--
The Nabob's pamper'd heir!

XII.

Some brightly starr'd--some evil born,--
For honor some, and some for scorn,--
For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indiff'rent--none may lack!
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black
And there's a Creole brown!

XIII.

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish _their_ frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home;--
Some tease their future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And plant for years to come!

XIV.

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_!

XV.

Yet he would glady halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop
With this world's heavy van--
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou canst be a horse at school,
To wish to be a man!

XVI.

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;
For happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!

XVII.

And dost thou think that years acquire
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood's mirth?--Oh, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when--_plays_,
And see _how forced_ our fun!

XVIII.

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!

XIX.

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
Towards that merry ground!

XX.

Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young l