Classic Poem

If ever my child were confined to a bed,
With limbs full of pain, and a dull heavy head,
O how he would think of the days
When, lightsome and free, like a bird on the wing,
O'er upland or dell he was able to spring,
On river and green-wood to gaze!

To breathe the fresh air underneath the blue skies,
Is worth all the cordials that med'cine supplies;
My darling would prize it in vain;
O how he would long o'er the daisies to tread,
To leave the down pillows so carefully spread,
And bound in the meadows again!

" In this dull apartment", he'd sadly exclaim,
" Spring, summer and autumn, to me are the same;
In vain do the violets blow;
I never can climb to the heather-bell's bed,
Nor watch the rooks building high over my head,
Nor glide where the water-flow'rs grow".

To those that have health every season is sweet:
Hot Summer has flowers, and a shady retreat,
Where thrushes and turtle-doves sing;
And lovely as light is the roseate glow
Which rests at bright dawn on the summits of snow,
And dear is the promise of Spring.

And they that have never known sickness and grief
Admire the deep red or the light yellow leaf,
Which soon shall be whirled from the bough.
Then Herbert, my child, to the meadows repair,
Make hay while it shines, and enjoy the fresh air,
Till age sets his seal on your brow.