Now I must play with Elgin's lord,--
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipt his string.
Forgotten all his capering,
And harness'd to the law!

My kite--how fast and fair 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 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
My sorrow and my bow!

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task,
My head's ne'er out of school;