A pond, supplied by hidden springs,
With lilies bordered round,
Was found among the richest things,
That blessed the widow’s ground.
She had, besides, a gentle brook,
That wound the meadow through,
Which from the pond its being took,
And had its treasures too.
Her eldest orphan was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.
And well he might be reckoned so,
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.
His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was—the parent’s chief delight—
A good and pleasant child.
He ’d gather chips and sticks of wood,
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.
In summer time he ’d kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.
He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn,
In part, to silver pence.
He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.
He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city’s ways to know;
The route he could not tread.