Classic Poem

A STORY FOR HOWARD AND ALFRED .

Wheel round your chairs a-near the fire,
And shut the outer door;
The north winds sweep across the fields,
And through the valleys roar.
I have a truthful tale to tell
About a little boy,
Who lived upon a heathy hill,
His honest parents' joy.

Full early was he taught to kneel
And clasp his hands in prayer
To Him who looks upon the earth,
And knows each traveller there;
That we must never lie nor steal,
Nor break His just command;
For all offending ones will feel
The anger of His hand.

One morn he left his mother's porch,
Where he had been at play,
And crept into a neighbour's house,
When they were gone away
To worship in the village church
Among the solemn trees;
The murmur of the tolling bells
Then rose upon the breeze.

He placed his foot upon the stair,
The echo made him start,
And still he climb'd, and still he felt
A sinking in his heart:
He scarcely knew the reason why
He thus did onward go,
Until he found a refuse box
In a back chamber low.

Here lay in undisturb'd repose
A lot of crazy ware, —
Old covers rusted into holes,
And bolts both round and square,
Nails drawn from doors no longer used,
Which fill'd him with delight,
And saddle-stirrups, studs of steel,
And buckles seldom bright.

He first snatch'd up a ribless screw,
Then many a tempting thing,
And threw them back, and strangely grasp'd
A lantern's simple ring;
Then slowly down the stair he went,
Within his hand the toy;
But every footfall seem'd to say,
" O naughty little boy! "

He gain'd the porch, and sat him down
Beneath the woodbine sweet,
And quickly laid the stolen ring
Upon his playing seat;
And every sparrow chirping loud
On the thatch-eaves for joy
Seem'd twittering, twittering evermore,
" O naughty little boy! "

He sought the hearth and climb'd again
His gentle mother's knee:
She stroked his hair, and kiss'd his face,
And bade him happy be;
But like a knell he heard the words,
All comfort to destroy,
Still sounding, sounding everywhere,
" O naughty little boy! "

And so at last he took the ring,
And slowly went away,
And crept the stair, and reach'd the room
Where the old waste-box lay,
And laid it down, and left the house
As softly as could be;
And when he reach'd his mother's porch,
How very glad was he!

The sparrows' chirp was music now,
His mother's voice was dear,
And from his face I know he wiped
Away the trickling tear;
And when beside his bed he knelt,
With folded hands to pray,
He ask'd the Lord to pardon him
For his great sin that day.

God heard his prayer, and blotted out
The little lambkin's stain;
His first offence was all forgiven;
He never stole again.
Resist the first approach of wrong,
O guard your virtue well,
Or it may end in wretchedness, —
How awful, who can tell?