Classic Poem

Harry, my little blue-eyed boy,
I love to have thee playing near;
There's music in thy shouts of joy
To a fond father's ear.

I love to see the lines of mirth
Mantle thy cheek and forehead fair,
As if all pleasures of the earth
Had met to revel there;

For gazing on thee, do I sigh
That those most happy years must flee,
And thy full share of misery
Must fall in life on thee!

There is no lasting grief below,
My Harry! that flows not from guilt;
Thou canst not read my meaning now--
In after times thou wilt.

Thou'lt read it when the churchyard clay
Shall lie upon thy father's breast,
And he, though dead, will point the way
Thou shalt be always blest.

They'll tell thee this terrestrial ball,
To man for his enjoyment given,
Is but a state of sinful thrall
To keep the soul from heaven.

My boy! the verdure-crownèd hills,
The vales where flowers innumerous blow,
The music of ten thousand rills
Will tell thee, 't is not so.

God is no tyrant who would spread
Unnumbered dainties to the eyes,
Yet teach the hungering child to dread
That touching them he dies!

No! all can do his creatures good,
He scatters round with hand profuse--
The only precept understood,
ENJOY, BUT NOT ABUSE!