Classic Poem

Smiling , unconscious boy! thy angel-mind
No great ambition sires; yet shall this hour
Be penn'd by Fame in thy unsully'd annals,
While Bristol 's glories, blazing on the day
By strong reflection, strike thine infant brow.

Exulting rapture, strain'd to painful thought,
Yet is not thine, else would thy gentle soul
O'erstretch Olympus, pant to catch the flame
Which lights him down to ages. My fond heart
Throbs with unusual motion. O my babe!
This hour, Affliction, Poverty, or Ill,
Shall never own: then come, ye brightest forms,
Who, viewless, from the bosom of the air,
Behold fond man stretch out the web of Hope,
Ne'er to attain completion: quick direct
My lovely Boy to catch the pious deed,
White-wing'd Idea, Faith, and firm Resolve.
Point his dear eye to Bristol 's wond'rous mind,
Where steady Principle, more fix'd appears
Than hoary Atlas, where the mighty thought ,
With Virtue on its awful front, is seen
By souls congenial — by the slaves who gaze
Thro' optics false, Virtue is ne'er discern'd.
Spirits like his (my Fred'rick) calmly view
Grim-visaged Woe uplift her keenest dart;
To her worst anguish ope their dauntless breasts,
And boldly cry, " Thy Pangs were made for Man. "

Unyielding Fortitude! bright Cherub, haste!
Early support my Boy's infantine sense
With all thy stubborn pow'rs; be thine the task
To shut up ev'ry passage of his soul,
When guilty Mis'ry, dress'd in artful guise,
Would trifle with his justice: bid him sit
On Truth's most rugged point; his spirit guide
Thro' all the storms of wild tumultuous passion,
Nor grant him self-applause by ease obtain'd.

Yet, who would dare, for all the wealth of Ind,
Quench that bright spark which burns, and still shall burn
Eternal in the soul? To Glory dead,
Creation must be desart! Virtue sleeps
While all the finest faculties of mind
Rust, like the iron long unus'd; then turn,
My dearest Fred'rick, turn, when glory calls,
But seize that point which trembles to the soul,
With sympathy magnetic. Self-applause
Is her most valu'd gem; she holds it high ;
For who the spirit-raising gift receives
From aught, but just conviction, falsely boasts.
For me the wing of Time is nearly plum'd;
For thee, yet scarcely fledg'd; yet, when the hour
Of Judgment comes, with filial feeling join'd,
Remember, Frederick, 'twas a Mother's wish,
That self-denying Virtue, rigid Rule,
And Heaven-attempting Hope be ever thine .