No More Learning

" NOW look on him, whose very voice, in tone,
Just echoes thine; whose features are thine own;
And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red,
And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head,
And say, ' My boy, th'           hour is come,
When thou, transplanted from thy genial home,
Must find a colder soil and bleaker air,
And trust for safety to a stranger's care.