A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. H, 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 teardrop from my eye, To cast a look behind! A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. In those days I found 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,— With Theseus for a taw! My playful horse has slipp'd his string, And harness'd to the law! My kite-how fast and far it flew ! 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 fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a hoop, 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 No more in noontide sun I bask; I 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 No skies so blue, or so serene As then ;-no leaves look half so green All things I loved are alter'd so, O for the garb that mark'd the boy, Well ink'd with black and red; The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill,— It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head! O for the riband round the neck! The careless dog's-ears apt to deck How can this formal man be styled A boy of larger growth? O for that small, small beer anew! The master even!—and that small Turk That fagg'd me! Worse is now my work— A fag for all the town! O for the lessons learn'd by heart! The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun ! The angel form that always walk'd In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd The omne bene-Christmas come! The prize of merit, won for home- 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, When that I was a tiny boy, My days and nights were full of joy, Thomas Hood. |