Only for infancy, fond mother, rend not those first affections;
Only for the sensitive and timorous, consign not thy darling unto misery.
A man looketh on his little one, as a being of better hope;
In himself ambition is dead, but it hath a resurrection in his son:
That vein is yet untried,—and who can tell if it be not golden?
While his, well nigh worked out, never yielded aught but lead:
And thus is he hurt more sorely, if his wishes are defeated there,
He has staked his all upon a throw, and lo! the dice have foiled him.
All ways, and at all times, men follow on in flocks,
And the rife epidemic of the day shall tincture the stream of education.