Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy
By Thomas Hood (1799–1845)A
That classic house, those classic grounds
My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there ’s the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turned our table-beer!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning’s woful tree!—
The weary tasks I used to con!
The hopeless leaves I wept upon!
Most fruitless leaves to me!
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
(Like Pallas in the parlor) yet
Some favored two or three,—
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize—Bohea?
Beneath whose shade in summer’s prime
So wildly I have read!—
Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of love and cottage-bread?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?
Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?
Where ’s Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase?
Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?
And some are serving in “the Greys,”
And some have perished young!—
Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life;
And blithe Carew—is hung!
To savages at Owhyee;
Poor Chase is with the worms!—
All, all are gone,—the olden breed!—
New crops of mushroom boys succeed,
“And push us from our forms!”
And leap, and skip, and mob about,
At play where we have played!
Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
And some are in the shade!
The orphan lad; the widow’s son;
And fortune’s favored care,—
The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Macadamized the future path,—
The nabob’s pampered heir!
For honor some, and some for scorn;
For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indifferent,—none may lack!
Look, here ’s a White, and there ’s a Black!
And there ’s a Creole brown!
And wish their frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home;
Some tease the future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come!
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!
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!
To wear a crown,—to be a king!
And sleep on regal down!
Alas! thou know’st not kingly cares;
Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood’s mirth?—O, go thy ways
To Drury Lane when —— plays,
And see how forced our fun!
Our tops are spun with coils of care,
Our dumps are no delight!—
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And ’t is at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse’s kite!
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!
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There ’s sky-blue in thy cup!
Thou ’lt find thy manhood all too fast,—
Soon come, soon gone! and age at last
A sorry breaking up!