The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize--bohea?


VI.

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
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?


VII.

Who struts the Randall of the walk?
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?


VIII.

Alack! they're gone--a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,"
And some have perish'd young!--