Classic Poem

May every wish thy parents breathe,
Thou sweetest; loveliest, boy be thine;
May hope and health their garlands wreathe,
And round thy brows the bright leaves twine.

And now I'll think thou art arrived
At that delightful smiling season,
When heaven, who form'd us, hath contriv'd
That we should like each thing but reason.

And I'll suppose that thou art young,
And I'll suppose that I am old,
And age unkind, hath o'er me flung
His wint'ry mantle, chill and cold.

And, oh! if such a wight as me
Might teach thee what to choose and shun,
What paths of life to seek and flee,
Until the eventful drama's done;

I'd tell thee this: there is a boy,
That steals from fairy-wreathed bowers;
And cries, " Who seeks for fadeless joy,
" Come here, I'll strew your life with flowers. "

Believe him not; he's false as those,
Who in our sun-shine round us gather,
But quit us when the chill blast blows,
And fate obscures life's sunny weather:

And then I'll tell thee Fortune's tricks,
How she flies from you, when you need her;
And with the tale grave precepts mix;
Till you grow tired — as the reader.

If so, farewell! I hope, in truth,
That all the storms of life you'll weather;
For thou'rt the sweetest thing that Youth
And Beauty yet e'er put together: