Which speaks delight, and asks reply:
Oh! with such graces never one
Was so much gifted as thy son!
In each variety of tone,
Each wayward charm, he stood alone;
And all too nicely pois'd to press,
Or ruffle tranquil happiness.

If thus a stranger thinks, who knew
Him but an infant--if he grew
With all the promise that appear'd
So brightly then, still more endear'd--
If, as the Honey with the Bee,
Affection dwells with poesy:
If that Affection is comprest,
And hoarded in a Father's breast,
Whose very soul doth blessings shed
Upon a grateful darling's head;
While every look is treasur'd there,
Till Thought itself becomes a prayer,
And Hopes hang on him full and gay.
"As blossoms on a bough in May"[1]--
Shall any venture to intrude
On thee? Oh! not with footstep rude,
But with a timorous zeal I come,
Just hang this wreath upon his tomb--
Record fond wishes sadly o'er,
To see my little favourite more!

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