And so attended to his girls and boys, She seem’d a mother in her fears and joys; On her they look’d with fondness, something check’d 130 By her appearance, that engaged respect; For still she dress’d as one of higher race, And her sweet smiles had dignity and grace. George was her favourite, and it gave her joy To indulge and to instruct the darling boy; To watch, to soothe, to check the forward child, Who was at once affectionate and wild; Happy and grateful for her tender care, And pleased her thoughts and company to share. George was a boy with spirit strong and high, 140 With handsome face, and penetrating eye; O’er his broad forehead hung his locks of brown, That gave a spirit to his boyish frown; “My little man,” were words that she applied To him, and he received with growing pride; Her darling, even from his infant years, Had something touching in his smiles and tears; And in his boyish manners he began To show the pride that was not made for man; But it became the child, the mother cried, 150 And the kind lady said it was not pride. George, to his cost, though sometimes to his praise, Was quite a hero in these early days, And would return from heroes just as stout, Blood in his crimson cheek, and blood without. “What! he submit to vulgar boys and low, He bear an insult, he forget a blow! They call’d him Parson—let his father bear His own reproach, it was his proper care; He was no parson, but he still would teach 160 The boys their manners, and yet would not preach.” The father, thoughtful of the time foregone, } Was loth to damp the spirit of his son; } Rememb’ring he himself had early laurels won; } The mother, frighten’d, begg’d him to refrain, And not his credit or his linen stain. While the kind friend so gently blamed the deed, He smiled in tears, and wish’d her to proceed; For the boy pleased her, and that roguish eye } And daring look were cause of many a sigh, 170} When she had thought how much would such quick temper try; } And oft she felt a kind of gathering gloom, Sad, and prophetic of the ills to come. Years fled unmark’d; the lady taught no more Th’ adopted tribe, as she was wont before; But by her help the school the lasses sought, And by the vicar’s self the boy was taught; Not unresisting when that cursed Greek Ask’d so much time for words that none will speak. “What can men worse for mortal brain contrive 180 Than thus a hard dead language to revive! Heav’ns, if a language once be fairly dead, } Let it be buried, not preserved and read, } The bane of every boy to decent station bred. } If any good these crabbed books contain, Translate them well, and let them then remain; To one huge vault convey the useless store, Then lose the key, and never find it more.” Something like this the lively boy express’d,