From such sweet views to draw poetic fire.
And so it was, for out his numbers flowed,
Which, quickly penned, he on his friends bestowed.
And though these numbers were but very rude,
They were, by rustic friends, with wonder viewed.
While he stood there his thoughts were backward thrown
To days which on Time's fleetest wing had flown--
When his grandfather, in that humble cot,
With sweet contentedness enjoyed his lot;
Wrought quietly at his most lowly trade,
And honest lived--though small the profits made.
In his mind's eye, he saw his father climb
Those rugged cliffs, in youth, or manhood's prime;
Or, with his brothers join in lively play,
On the long evenings of each Summer day.
Anon would view the time when each forsook
That humble cottage, some fresh toil to brook;
Saw them all settled in a wedded life--
In honest work employed, exempt from strife.
Or glanced at some of his own early days--
When he gave up, on Saturdays, his plays,
To go with his dear grandfather, to sell
The neat _bee-hives_ the old man framed so well.
And often wondered what made selfish men
Try at less price those _bee-hives_ to obtain;
And why the tears would oft the eyes bedim
Of that old man, when they thus bantered him?
And then with lightning speed his thoughts would stray,
To when his grandfather was ta'en away,
To meet in church-yard with his kindred clay.