Classic Poem

Why , Father of the forest Pan,
Neglect thy ancient care;
Resume, as when thy reign began,
Nor let our cliffs be bare.

O! nurse thy Britain's native plant,
Its stems of silver rear;
Nor let her sons, in future, want
The streams that once were dear.

Her birchen shades, in days of yore,
Were seats of sages' knowledge;
Where Britons heard the oral lore,
Ere yet was known a college.

Yet vanish'd the vocal groves,
The scenes of song and pleasure,
Where Gwilym met the Muses, Loves,
Our Ovid's only treasure.

His Morvydd, now, in vain would seek
For birch to braid with flowers;
To form the wreath that silent speaks,
Where Love exerts his powers.

And Scotia, too, indignant views
The beams meridian play
Where erst in shades her Mountain Muse
Sang " Birks of Invermay. "

Plant on, ye Gwydirs; Fifes, proceed;
A tyrant's plans revoke;
Undo what Edward once decreed,
And crown our cliffs with oak.

Adorn your country's upland plains,
Revive the patriot Arts;
From Essex bring the growing brains ,
Renew our groves of hearts

And Science when, in future days,
She o'er your ashes bends,
Will own, and in a strain of praise,
You, forcibly , her friends.

And Britain, while her rising boys,
In floating forests hearty,
Be grateful, when the band destroys
A future Bonaparte.

The Fates will foster such employ
For Physic, Law, the Church;
Unite then — nor our views destroy,
If Learning's born of Birch.

The boy by parents both design'd
To rival Newton, Pope,
May have, if birch can give it, mind,
Or far, perhaps, is hope.

A little salt, the sage declares,
Insipid youth will season;
'Tis Prudence lifts the rod, or spares,
" In roasting eggs — there's reason. "

But minds there are too rich to own
The rod's dominion o'er 'em;
While others hate the hand alone
That holds it in terrorem .

Yet Art in vain, from summits dark,
Will Nature's clouds erase;
Nor hardships damp the genial spark
Which Heaven designs to blaze.

Hail, happier youth, now roar and run,
The rolling hoop outstrip;
Unlearnt the lesson, task undone,
We cant afford — to whip.

The Orchard's treasure, Gardener's care,
With secret ardour seize;
Yet stay — to hear Pomona's prayer,
O! do not tear her trees.

On Sundays urge your bouncing balls,
Even slyly leave the church;
In vain the beadle hoarsely calls,
For dead is Madame Birch.

Proceed, my lads, nor heed the charge,
Gay Frolic's range increases,
The frenum fling, you are all — at large,
The reign of whipping ceases.

Had learned Busby liv'd to-day,
(That friend of flagellation)
He'd pin'd, for want of Birch, away,
And died of mere vexation.

And thank your stars, my truant boys,
You did not live at Farn,
For masters there had clipp'd your joys,
And kept your jackets warm.

And now, if bless'd beyond compare,
By birchen twigs uncross'd;
To rue its want, alas! there are,
Whose souls will NOW be lost.

Yet, since to every good on earth,
Some small alloy will creep;
One mischief will, in this , have birth,
Our sluts will cease to sweep.