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George Gordon Byron - To My Son
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Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother`s in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy fathers heart, my Boy!

And thou canst lisp a father`s name--
Ah, William, were thine own the same,­
No self‑reproach--but, let me cease--
My care for thee shall purchase peace; 
Thy mother`s shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger`s breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hops destroy,--
A Father`s heart is throe, my Boy!

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature`s claim disown? 
Ah, no--though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy­
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

Oh, `twill be sweet in thee to trace, 
Ere age has wrinkled o`er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy!

Although so young thy heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental fire; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen`s form revives in thee, 
The breast which beat to former joy,
Will ne`er desert its pledge, my Boy!
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