To My Father
Stay thine overshadowing wings, relentless Time,
Nor shed those auburn locks with falling gray,
That over my father's frownless forehead play
Graceful and fair, as in youth's golden prime.
Stay thy rude hand, and he through many a clime
Shall teach thee to retrace thy distant way
To the bright regions of historic day!
Or he shall charm thee with prophetic rhyme
Swept from the strings of freedom's holy lyre,
Or call the muses from the Ausonian land,
And with the strain their breathing lips inspire,
Win thy cold ear, and check thy ebbing sand!
Vain is my prayer--already over my sire
Thou, ruthless power, hast stretched thine iron hand!