They love to pour into the ductile mind, By its own weakness into error led, And by fond age with prejudices fed. The father, thankful for the good he had, Yet saw with pain a whining, timid lad; Whom he, instructing, led through cultured fields, To show what man performs, what nature yields; But Stephen, listless, wander’d from the view; } 110 From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew, } And idly gazed about, in search of something new. } The lambs indeed he loved, and wish’d to play With things so mild, so harmless, and so gay; Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see, With whom he felt a sickly sympathy. Meantime, the dame was anxious, day and night, } To guide the notions of her babe aright, } And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering light; } Her Bible-stories she impress’d betimes, 120 And fill’d his head with hymns and holy rhymes; On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt, And the poor boy mysterious terrors felt; From frightful dreams, he, waking, sobb’d in dread, Till the good lady came to guard his bed. The father wish’d such errors to correct, But let them pass in duty and respect. But more it grieved his worthy mind to see That Stephen never would a farmer be; In vain he tried the shiftless lad to guide, 130 And yet ’twas time that something should be tried. He at the village-school perchance might gain All that such mind could gather and retain; Yet the good dame affirm’d her favourite child Was apt and studious, though sedate and mild; “That he on many a learned point could speak, And that his body, not his mind, was weak.” The father doubted--but to school was sent The timid Stephen, weeping as he went: There the rude lads compell’d the child to fight, 140 And sent him bleeding to his home at night; At this the grandam more indulgent grew, And bade her darling “shun the beastly crew; Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie Howling in torments, when they came to die.” This was such comfort, that in high disdain He told their fate, and felt their blows again. Yet, if the boy had not a hero’s heart, Within the school he play’d a better part: He wrote a clean, fine hand, and at his slate 150 With more success than many a hero sate; He thought not much indeed--but what depends On pains and care was at his fingers’ ends. This had his father’s praise, who now espied A spark of merit, with a blaze of pride; And, though a farmer he would never make, He might a pen with some advantage take; And as a clerk that instrument employ, So well adapted to a timid boy. A London cousin soon a place obtain’d, 160 Easy but humble--little could be gain’d.