Classic Poem

Athoughtful lad was miss'd one day,
And his mother had felt he was long away;
So she dropp'd her work, and closed the door,
And walk'd a little way down the moor;
And found him musing under a tree,
And cried, “Come home, my son, with me.”
And the lad replied, “I will, I will;
I was learning the lore of the gentle rill.
O wist ye not that your boy hath striven
To tune the harp which the Lord hath given?”

And the words which rose on the summer air
Were treasured up by that mother there;
And those gentle tones she ever heard,
Like forest fifes by the breezes stirr'd.
Whether reading low by the evening fire,
Or spreading the meal for his labouring sire;
Whether she plied her needle bright,
Or milk'd the cow 'mid the daisies white,
In dark or light, in calm or storm,
She heard his voice, and she saw his form.

The boy grew up like a floweret wild,
For he was Nature's favourite child.
She taught him with her book of moss,
Her beetling cliff, her crag and cross,
Her sounding seas, her rivers wide,
Her hills and vales where streamlets glide,
The face of man, and blooming boy,
Or maiden, like an April joy,
Till he achieved undying fame,
And won a poet's noble name.