University of Virginia Library

A POEM,

Composed by a lad of 12 years old, to be exhibited at the close of the winter school, in presence of the Master, the Minister of the Parish, and a number of private Gentlemen.

When the dire strife with Britain's pow'r unfurld
War's bloody banners over half the world;
Affrighted Science cast a backward look,
Clapt her broad pinions and the states forsook.
But freedom soon resum'd her ancient sway
And rising Learning pour'd imperfect day:—
Columbia saw and bless'd the glorious light,
But fate's dark clouds half hid it from the sight.
Now these dispell'd, much brighter days arise,
And purer splendors greet unclouded eyes;
How strangely alter'd from our fathers days,
These modern times, the subject of my lays!
O! may some remnant of their virtue, still
Glow in our hearts, and mould our wav'ring will!
Small the provision then, for learning made;
Few were the schools established for its aid.—
But now they rise, increasing o'er the state
And smiling science lifts her eye sedate.—
Thanks to the master, whose instruction kind,
By slow gradation has inform'd the mind;
Who for our care, was often forc'd to go
Through heaps, high-pil'd, of ever drifting snow.—
In fleecy storms and cold descending rains,
When chilling breezes swept across the plains;
Who, though he gave some salutary wounds,
Drove not correction to its utmost bounds.
Thanks to the Preacher whose discernment true,
Upholds Religion to the mental view;—
Unfolds to us instruction's ample page,
Rich with the fruits of ev'ry distant age;
Pours simple truths, by love divine refin'd,
With force resistless on the youthful mind.—
Thanks to the Gentlemen assembled here,
To see what progress we have made this year;
In Learning's paths, our footsteps to survey,
And trace our passage up the sloping way.—
And thanks to Heaven, the first and best of all,
The auditor of ev'ry humble call,
That (tho' a few have fall'n behind the rest,)
So much improvement has our studies blest.
And since I am to serious thoughts inclin'd,
Now to the scholars I'll address my mind;
A word or two, in which, myself may bear
If not a greater, yet an equal share.
My comrades! tho' we're not a num'rous train.
'Tis doubtful whether, we shall meet again;
For death's cold hand may aim th un erring blow,
And lay, with heavy stroke, the victim low;
From this frail state, th'unbody'd soul will fly,
And sink to Hell, or soar above the sky.
Then let us tread, as lowly Jesus trod,
The path that leads the sinner to his God;
Keep Heaven's bright mansions ever in our eyes,
Less tow'rds the mark and seize the glorious prize.