Classic Poem

The preacher's family must spend
A week day at the rich man's feast;
Of eating supper was no end,
The table groaned to please the priest;
Turkey and ducks and oysters cooked
And Sally Lunn and Federal pone—
The preacher carved and learned looked,
The while he told how it was done.

O'erfed, o'erlaughed, the preacher's son
Stole from the table, still to be
And in the parlor read alone
Books from a little library—
Books not like then the parsonage kept,
Books that the Sunday-schools would brand!
And there he revelled till he slept,
A pirate story in his hand.

Night fell; the boy around him looks;
What is that voice that softly purled
“How would you like to live those books
“And quit the parsonage for the world?”
“Can I?” “Sign here, my tender bud,
Thy name so bold it will not blur!”
The boy, he signed it with his blood:
The parchment was a Newspaper!

The boy awoke. “O, what a dream!
I thought the end would never come—
Do they still eat? Where is our team?”
It must be time for going home.”
“It is past time. No boy art thou.
Thy dream's thy life, lived page by page;
Thy blood is witness on thy vow.
Thou'rt drawing near the parsonage.”