TO MY BOY TOM, ON GIVING HIM HIS FIRST SPELLING-BOOK. Poor Tom, they're heathen Greek to you-- Those curiously-formed letters; But you must learn them all, my boy, And break the dunce's fetters. Ay, there they stand, from A to Z, Like prophets sent on mission, To point the way in Wisdom's path With accurate precision. Or rather, they are like old nurse, Aiding the first gradation, The Alpha- Bet and leading-strings To better education. And having totter'd, step by step, Till stronger grown in knowledge, Why, then, my boy, you'll run alone Through this, your infant's college. Ay, puzzle on--that's A, this B; Ne'er mind a few erratics: The big round O, and upright I, Will lead to mathematics. Your little book is just like life In its progressive stages; You'll find the spelling harder grow, As you turn o'er the pages. Two letters--three--and then comes four Then syllables united, Till six or seven in columns stand, To render you affrighted. But, having conn'd your lesson o'er, With true pronunciation, The task's performed, and you will gain A parent's approbation. Just so in life our troubles rise, Getting from rough to rougher, For man is like the grammar verbs, To be, or do, or suffer . Dog.

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