Classic Poem

The branch I sing, nor shall the muse,
To aid the appointed theme refuse;
Some moral good may mark the lay,
And allegoric truths convey.

Train up the child, the wise man said,
In the same way you'd have him tread,
And, when he's old, he'll not depart
From what is graven on his heart.
And thus, thro' life, a branch he'll be,
Of what was erst his parent tree.

Children but branches are, and prove
The heirs of vice or virtue, hate or love;
If healthy be the sire and dame,
Their offspring you will see the same;
Or, if their minds be virtue's seat,
By truth and science made complete,
Their daughters and their sons will grow,
Belov'd and prized, like them who made them so.

Children to branches we compare,…
When small, and train'd, and bent with care.
They any form and figure make,
And various directions take;
Crooked and rough they may be made,
Or smooth and gracefully display'd;
So may the infant mind be taught,
To error led,…with virtue fraught,
To vice adicted, or to truth,
And age will be, what was the youth.

The Oak, proud monarch of the wood,
A type of firmness long hath stood,
The Osier's branches, pliant, see,
Are emblems of servility.
The Myrtle, sacred to love's queen,
The sign of fond affections seen;
Its beauteous, tender branches move
The heart to sentiments of love;
And, as they sportive bloom, and twining grow,
Point to soft joys, congenial bosoms know.

The Laurel, famous branch! the bard
Can surely never disregard;
'Tis this the poet's brow entwines,
This pays him for his godlike lines;
And, sad to tell, the only pay
He often gets for sweetest lay.
'Tis this around the patriot's brows,
With conscious exultation glows,
'Tis this heraldric honours gives,
And points where fame and merit lives;
'Tis this our S YDNEYS , Russels , claim,
This ever blooms with S HAKSPEARE'S name;
Sacred to wisdom and to truth,
And claim'd alike by age and youth;
The Laurel's honours still we view,
Where live the brilliant, great and true.

Old H OMER bore the wreath along,
Father of harmony, and song;
And later days have seen it grow,
On N EWTON'S , M ILTON'S , R OUSSEAU'S brow;
And thousands more, who liv'd alone
To charm, instruct, delight, adorn,…
Who liv'd, and live, the world to mend,
And still the sweet and useful blend.

The Laurel's branches also spread,
In honour, round the conqueror's head.
And crowns the brow of him who leads
Triumphant hosts to martial deeds;
Wherever fame her praises breathes,
The Laurel twines its sacred wreaths.

A MMON'S fam'd son, who madly hurl'd
Destruction round a bleeding world,
Or he, who X ERXES hosts o'ercame,
And blasted all his hopes of fame;
C ÆSAR , who rais'd his impious hand,
And tried t'enslave his native land;
Or he who fix'd the tyrant's doom,
And stay'd, awhile, the fall of Rome,
All swell the trump of high renown,
And gain alike the Laurel crown.

The Olive, dearest branch! portends
The best of signs, that men are friends;
That peace imparts her heavenly reign,
And joys the town, and glads the plain,
Spreads countless treasures far and wide,
And pours of blessings the full tide.

O! may her happy days again,
Soon wake the poet's sweetest strain;
And all the world, exulting, prove
The joys of peace,…the reign of love,
And earth beneath be like the heaven above!