Classic Poem

Father beloved, thy daughter gives
Glad welcome to the morn,
That ushers in the happy day,
When sire and son were born.

Sire, on whose brow, few threads of gray
Have mingled with the gold,
Babe, with the silver, waving hair,
And only one year old.

Thou standest on the mountain top,
Thine eye is youthful still;
While he, a helpless babe, doth take
His first step up the hill.

His little feet may ne'er ascend
High as thine own have trod,
But waver soon, and early rest
Beneath the valley's sod.

But should he firmly travel on,
And gain the mountain height,
May he uphold the true and good,
Like thee, maintain the “right.”

Nor turn aside in flowery paths,
By lulling streams to stray,
Nor pluck the ripening fruits of sin,
That tempt him by the way.

Thus shall two lives alike run on,
That were alike begun,
And thus the birthday of the “sire.”
Be honored by the “son.”