To My Grandson William, on his Repeating to me most perfectly and accurately my Poem, The Fall of Ne: Poem by Francis Noel Clarke Mundy

To My Grandson William, on his Repeating to me most perfectly and accurately my Poem, The Fall of Needwood, which he had secretly got by Heart. January, 1809.

Aged, as aged lovers use,
I coax'd, then quarrell'd with my Muse;
This hour acknowledg'd her with pride,
Turn'd peevishly the next aside;
Now all was just as I could wish;
Now bad the best, and pshaw! and pish!

Despairing of herself to please
One so perversely prone to teaze,
For once, though foreign to her heart,
She stoop'd to court the help of Art.

The plotting pair rejoic'd to see
Attentive William at my knee.
Never did grandsire's arms enfold
An apter child of seven years old.
They plac'd, as playthings for his age,
Proof sheets, and scraps, and refuse page.
He, of all learning he had heard
Or read, his grand-papa's preferr'd,
Delighted this his text to spell,
And catch all fragments as they fell,
Till memory the whole had stor'd;—
But kept in secrecy her hoard.

Forgetful, incorrect, at times
Loosely I mutter'd o'er my rhimes;
Listening, this little boy the while
Reprov'd my errors with a smile.
I doubted, ask'd, encourag'd, led,
When with a blush he rais'd his head,
The Fall of Needwood to recite;—
My little boy is always right.

Ah, who can tell the Muse's joy,
When o'er this interesting boy,
With eager appetite I hung,
And drank the honey of his tongue?
Verse, that so recommended came,
I could not slight, I could not blame:
He gave it with a flow so sweet,
My work though humble, seem'd complete.

Thus sometimes to fastidious ear
Harsh may the shrill-ton'd lark appear,
Or loudly, from her lofty haunt,
The throstle unregarded chaunt;
Yet, if retired in secret glen,
Peeps, from a lowly bush, the wren,
With innocence of look, that wins
Attention, ere her note begins,
Soft, as if cherub whispers stole
To wake, and harmonize the soul,
Is there, that can its love withhold,
An ear so dull, a heart so cold?
Nay; but the praises, Muse, belong
More to the songster than the song.

Analysis of this poem