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 shar'd 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 these;--no leaves look half so green
As cloth'd the play-ground tree!
All things I lov'd are altered so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me.

O, for the garb that mark'd the boy!
The trousers made of corduroy.
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 that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue
That wash'd my sweet meals down!
The master even!--and that small turk
That fagg'd me!--worse is now my work,--