A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;

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— Now I must play with Elgin's lord, With Theseus for a taw!

My playful horse has slipp'd his string, Forgotten all his capering,

And harnessed to the law!

My kite-how fast and far it flew !
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
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 dumps are made of more than lead,
My flights soon find a fall;

My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a whoop,
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 unlearned,

And grief against myself has turn'd
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 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
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 play-ground tree!

All things I loved are alter'd 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 and 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!
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 fagged 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 which 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!"

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!

Thomas Hood.

HE days of our youth! had we a grip o' them back again,

THE

how different like wad we use them; at least so we think, but wha can hinder the wind to blaw? Youth winna be guided.

IT

T is a fine thing to ripen without shrivelling; to reach the calmness of age, yet keep the warm heart and ready sympathy of youth.

Boyd.

OF

F this old man, let this just praise be given,
Heaven was in him before he was in heaven.

OLD AGE.

WHEN life has been well spent, age is a loss of what it

can well spare-muscular strength, organic instincts, gross bulk, and works that belong to these. But the central wisdom, which was old in infancy, is young in four-score years, and, dropping off obstructions, leaves in happy subjects the

mind purified and wise. I have heard that whoever loves is in no condition old. I have heard, that whenever the name of man is spoken, the doctrine of immortality is announced; it cleaves to his constitution. The mode of it baffles our wit, and no whisper comes to us from the other side. But the inference from the working of intellect, hiving knowledge, hiving skill-at the end of life just ready to be born-affirms the inspirations of affection and of the moral sentiment.

R. W. Emerson.

THE acts of this life shall be the fate of the next.

Eastern Saying.

ANOTHER CHANCE.

MY days go by, till I stand despairing;

For those were evil, and these were vain,
Yet hope, my heart, for the time is nearing
When I may renew my life again.

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

E. S. Turner.

I

SAW an aged man upon his bier,

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow

A record of the cares of many a year;

Cares that were ended and forgotten now.
And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,

And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.