Classic Poem

See little Regulus; he claps his hands
To hear his sire, not three years old is he,
Yet quits his mother's lap and proudly stands
To share the loud applause; he loves to see
The bench, the crowding throng, and hails with glee
The pomp of court and lawyers' busy drone.
So high-bred colts will long a race to run,
Bulls lust for battle ere their horns be grown.
Preserve him, heaven, until, his triumphs won,
His father see them, and his mother own
Pride in the sire redoubled in the son.