AT length, when twenty summers time had run, The father to the city brought his son; With years weighed down, the hermit scarcely knew His daily course of duty to pursue; And when Death's venomed shaft should on him fall; On whom could then his boy for succour call? How life support, unknowing and unknown? Wolves, foxes, bears, ne'er charity have shown; And all the sire could give his darling care, A staff and wallet, he was well aware Fine patrimony, truly, for a child! To which his mind was no way reconciled. Bread few, 'twas clear, the hermit would deny, And rich he might have been you may rely; When he drew near, the children quickly cried Here's father Philip--haste, the alms provide; And many pious men his friends were found, But not one female devotee around: None would he hear; the FAIR he always fled Their smiles and wiles the friar kept in dread. OUR hermit, when he thought his darling youth; Well fixed in duty and religious truth, Conveyed him 'mong his pious friends, to learn How food to beg, and other ways discern. In tears he viewed his son the forest quit, And fain would have him for the world unfit. THE city's palaces and lofty spires, Our rustick's bosom filled with new desires. The prince's residence great splendour showed, And lively pleasure on the youth bestowed. What's here? said he; The court, his friends replied:-- What there?--The mansions where the great reside:-- And these?--Fine statues, noble works of art: All gave delight and gratitude his heart. But when the beauteous FAIR first caught his view, To ev'ry other sight he bade adieu; The palace, court, or mansions he admired, No longer proved the objects he desired; Another cause of admiration rose, His breast pervaded, and disturbed repose. What's this, he cried, so elegantly neat? O tell me, father; make my joy complete! WHAT gave the son such exquisite delight, The parent filled with agonizing fright. To answer, howsoe'er he'd no excuse, So told the youth--a bird they call a goose. O BEAUTEOUS bird, exclaimed th' enraptured boy, Sing, sound thy voice, 'twill fill my soul with joy; To thee I'd anxiously be better known; O father, let me have one for my own! A thousand times I fondly ask the boon; Let's take it to the woods: 'tis not too soon; Young as it is, I'll feed it morn and night, And always make it my supreme delight. RICHARD MINUTOLO