My son, thou wast my heart’s delight,
  Thy morn of life was gay and cheery;
That morn has rushed to sudden night,
  Thy father’s house is sad and dreary.

I held thee on my knee, my son!
  And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping;
But ah!...

If stores of dry and learnèd lore we gain,
We keep them in the memory of the brain;
Names, things, and facts,—whate’er we knowledge call,—
There is the common ledger for them all;
And images on this cold surface traced
Make slight impression, and are soon...