Classic Poem

Hail pleasing spot! the scene of former joys,
Where free from bustle, and the city's noise,
The insant mind was train'd in virtue's sway.
Unaw'd by threats or stern correction's sway.

Tho' distant far the scenes my heart once knew,
Still fleeting fancy, brings them to my view;
Once more befits, as musing here I stand,
The childish play-thing to my ready hand;
I see the tops in circling orbits roll,
And balls swift bounding reach the destin'd goal;
The tow'ring kite on well-poiz'd pinions soar,
The Boy loud sobbing that his bird's no more.
With heart-felt joy I view that happy spot,
Where mimic heroes Troy's old battles sought;
Where doughty kings their wooden sceptres sway'd,
Whom self-made subjects willingly obey'd.
Thrice happy space! that nought cou'd e'er annoy,
Save the ambition of the finest toy.
But oh! how idly pants the throbbing soul,
To fly these joys, impatient of control,
To range too soon on pleasures slipp'ry shore,
Ere half the business of the child is o'er,
There vacant sport the precious time away
In all the wanton fashions of the day.
Unwary youth take not this truth amiss,
That spring well foster'd crowns your winter's bliss.
That season past, vain is the toil to find
One fleeting moment which you left behind,
Tho' late repentance, still 'twill never fail,
'Tis one who feels it — sighing tells the tale!

That house alas! where once contentment reign'd,
And nought but harmony admittance gain'd,
Now hangs a ruin, scarce a peasant's shed;
It's former master number'd with the dead:
He's gone! no more to lead his infant train,
With care parental o'er the verdant plain;
No more benignly join the children's play,
Obey'd himself, no more in turn obey.
Oft have I seen him when the task was o'er,
Instruct his pupils in gymnastic lore;
Pleas'd with each gambol of the prat'ling race,
His mind, unbending, with their sports kept pace.
As firm in virtue, as averse from vice,
His heart attun'd to every feeling nice.
When e'er reluctantly the rod he ply'd,
His tender heart wou'd half the pain divide;
Nay more! the culprit's self cou'd scarce complain;
Convinc'd his welfare was the only aim.
As when a surgeon probes a rank'ling wound,
The patient murmurs with a grateful sound.

Tho' cold his corse, his virtues rest behind,
At least they'll bloom for ever in my mind.