Classic Poem

How softly glide Philemon's happy days
Within the cot where once his father dwelt
Peaceful as he!
Here with his gentle wife and sturdy boys,
In rural quietude, he tills his farm;
Gathers his harvest, or his garden tends.
Here sweet domestic joys together shared
Crown every evening, whether 'neath the trees
The smiling summer draws the table forth:
Or round the cosy hearth the winter cold
With crackling faggot blazing makes their cheer.
Here do the careful parents ever give
Counsels of virtuous knowledge to their sons.
The father with a story points his speech,
The mother with a kiss.
Of different tastes, the boys: the elder one,
Grave, studious, reads and thinks the livelong day;
The younger, sprightly, gay, and graceful, too,
Leaps, laughs incessant, and in games delights.
One evening, as their wont, at father's side,
And near a table where their mother sewed,
The elder Rollin read. The younger played:
Small care had he for Rome's ambitious deeds,
Or Parthian prowess; his whole mind was set
To build a house of cards, his wit sharp-drawn
To fit the corners neatly. He, nor speaks,
Nor scarce may breathe, so great his anxious care.
But suddenly the reader's voice is heard
Self-interrupting: “Papa, pray tell me why
Some warriors are called Conquerors, and some
The Founders, of an Empire? What doth make
The points of difference in the simple terms?”
In careful thought the father sought reply:
When, radiant with delight, his younger son,
After so much endeavour, having placed
His second stage, cries out, “Tis done!” But he,
The elder, harshly chides his brother's glee,
Strikes the frail tenement, and so destroys
The fruits of patient toil: The younger weeps:
And then the father thus: “Oh, my dear son,
Thy brother is the Founder of a realm,
Thou the fell Conqueror.”