And plodding ploughmen's weary steps insensibly grow quicker,
As broadening casements light them on towards home, or home-brewed
liquor.

It is (in fact) the evening--that pure and pleasant time,
When stars break into splendour, and poets into rhyme;
When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine -
And when, of course, Miss Goodchild's is prominent in mine.

Miss Goodchild!--Julia Goodchild!--how graciously you smiled
Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child:
When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb's instruction,
And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction!

"She wore" her natural "roses, the night when first we met" -
Her golden hair was gleaming 'neath the coercive net:
"Her brow was like the snawdrift," her step was like Queen Mab's,
And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb's.

The parlour-boarder chasseed tow'rds her on graceful limb;
The onyx decked his bosom--but her smiles were not for him:
With ME she danced--till drowsily her eyes "began to blink,"
And _I_ brought raisin wine, and said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"

And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,
And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;
Shall I--with that soft hand in mine--enact ideal Lancers,
And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers:-

I know that never, never may her love for me return -