And bade her Darling “shun the beastly crew,
Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie
Howling in torments, when they came to die.” 
This was such comfort, that in high disdain
He told their fate, and felt their blows again: 
Yet if the Boy had not a hero’s heart,
Within the school he play’d a better part;
He wrote a clean fine hand, and at his slate
With more success than many a hero sate;
He thought not much indeed—­but what depends
On pains and care was at his fingers’ ends. 
   This had his Father’s praise, who now espied
A spark of merit, with a blaze of pride;
And though a farmer he would never make,
He might a pen with some advantage take;
And as a clerk that instrument employ,
So well adapted to a timid boy. 
   A London Cousin soon a place obtain’d,
Easy but humble—­little could be gain’d: 
The time arrived when youth and age must part,
Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart;
The careful Father bade his Son attend
To all his duties and obey his Friend;
To keep his church and there behave aright,
As one existing in his Maker’s sight,
Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight. 
“Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can,
T’assume the looks and spirit of a man;
I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true,
And this you may, and yet have courage too: 
Heroic men, their country’s boast and pride,
Have fear’d their God, and nothing fear’d beside;
While others daring, yet imbecile, fly
The power of man, and that of God defy: 
Be manly, then, though mild, for, sure as fate,
Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate;
Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use
(’Tis fairly stock’d) of what it will produce: 
And now my blessing, not as any charm
Or conjuration; but ’twill do no harm.” 
   Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up and down,
Now charm’d with promised sights in London-town,
Now loth to leave his Grandam—­lost the force,
The drift and tenor of this grave discourse;
But, in a general way, he understood
’Twas good advice, and meant, “My son be good;”
And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean
That lads should read their Bible, and be clean. 
   The good old Lady, though in some distress,
Begg’d her dear Stephen would his grief suppress: 
“Nay, dry those eyes, my child—­and, first of all. 
Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall:’ 
Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text
For meditation till you hear the next;
Within your Bible night and morning look —
There is your duty, read no other book;
Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen,
And keep your conscience and your linen clean: 
Be you a Joseph, and the time may be
When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee.” 
   “Nay,” said the Father—­“Hush, my son!” replied
The Dame—­“the Scriptures must not be denied.” 
   The Lad, still weeping, heard the