Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/Tribute to an Instructor
TRIBUTE TO AN INSTRUCTOR.
AS when an eye, accustom'd to survey
The changeful aspect of an April day,
Turns back regretful to the early dawn,
And the fair smile that dew'd the face of morn;
So I, from youth's delusions, wild and vain,
Its boasted pleasures, and its mingled pain,
Look back to childhood's fair, and pictured, scenes again.
And most I love those soft and blended shades,
Where youth just glimmers, and where childhood fades,
On which fond memory sheds a lustre, more
Than hope, or fancy, on the future pour.
Oh, deem it not intrusive, vain, or free,
That this weak lay should pour itself to thee,
Rever'd instructor, for before mine eyes,
Thine image in those vision'd scenes will rise;
And memory hastening as with filial love,
Would wreath its brow with garlands she has wove[1].
What most I prize, I first received from thee;
Knowledge till then had shewn few charms for me,
For often had cold rigour harshly doom'd,
The buds of promise withering e'er they bloom'd.
And glanc'd with stern regard a chilling eye,
Upon a mind that shrunk it knew not why.
And thou alone didst guide a timorous mind,
Wise as a teacher, as a parent kind;
With careful hand its wayward course withheld,
Allur'd, not forc'd, encourag'd, not compell'd;
The shrinking eye look'd up, the soul was cheer'd,
Felt as it learnt, confided e'er it fear'd;
And first by emulation's ardour mov'd,
Prest onward in the path which soon it lov'd.
Those intellectual joys by thee were shown,
Which charm when youth's light giddiness is gone,
And haply but for thee, ah, never had I known.
A plant of feeble stem thou would'st not break,
Or bruise its buds because their bloom was weak,
Or blight it with a cold and cheerless shade,
Or scorn it, tho' it rose from lowly bed.
But propt its humble stalk with kindest care,
Rais'd its wan buds to feel a fresher air,
And o'er its narrow leaves and bending head,
The dews of knowledge and of virtue shed.
Gave to its shrinking root a firmer soil,
Though its scant foliage scarce repaid the toil;
And now of stature frail, and low degree,
More rude and worthless, than it ought to be,
It turns to him who first its soil renew'd,
It lifts to him its buds, and blossoms crude,
And loads the passing gale with gratitude.
Yet more than what I speak, to thee I owe,
And blessings, more than strains so weak can show.
Thy warning voice allur'd my erring youth,
To seek the path of piety and truth;
And heaven's first hopes, as early sun-beams roll,
Dawn'd from thy prayers upon my anxious soul.
Scorn not the muse who comes in rustic dress,
These thanks sincere and artless to express,
And breathe her wishes for thy happiness.
Around thy house may guardian angels bend,
Thy slumbers watch, thy wakeful hours defend;
And her whom gentle fate has led to twine
Her earthly hopes and destinies with thine,
And all who claim thy labour or thy care,
Thy daily study, and thy nightly prayer,
Still to thy hopes be true, and in thy blessings share.
Oh, ever free from doubt, and pain, and strife,
Flow on the current of thy tranquil life!
Pure as the dew-drop on the flow'ret's heads,
The youthful spring in rich profusion sheds;
Bright as the star whose crescent gilds the dawn,
And marks the foot-steps of the glowing morn;
Blest in those joys which hearts like thine may prove,
The kind returns of tenderness and love;
Firm in those hopes that heal the wounds of woe,
Which hearts at peace with God alone can know:
High in that holy charge so wisely given,
To lead an earthly flock the way to heaven.
So may'st thou live, 'till honours more divine,
More perfect peace, more lasting joys are thine;
'Till from a lofty and a cloudless sphere,
Shall burst those sounds, too sweet for mortal ear,
"Come, good and faithful servant, thy reward is here."