Classic Poem

Thou dost not dream, my little one,
How great the change must be,
These two years, since the morning sun
First shed his beams on thee.
Thy little hands did helpless fall,
As with a stranger's fear,
And a faint wailing cry was all
That met thy mother's ear.

But now the dictates of thy will
Thine active feet obey,
And, pleased, thy busy fingers still
Among thy playthings stray;
And thy full eyes delighted rove
The pictured page along,
And, lisping to the heart of love,
Thy thousand wishes throng.

Fair boy! the wanderings of thy way
It is not mine to trace,
Through buoyant youth's exulting day,
Or manhood's bolder race:
What discipline thy heart may need,
What clouds may veil thy sun,
The eye of God alone can read —
And let his will be done.

Yet might a mother's prayer of love
Thy destiny control;
Those boasted gifts that often prove
The ruin of the soul,
Beauty and fortune, wit and fame,
For thee it would not crave,
But tearful urge a fervent claim
To joys beyond the grave.

O! be thy wealth an upright heart,
Thy strength the sufferer's stay,
Thine early choice that better part
Which cannot fade away;
Thy zeal for Christ a quenchless fire,
Thy friends the men of peace,
Thy heritage an angel's lyre
When earthly changes cease.