To the Infant Son of My Dear Friends, Mr. and Mrs. Grahame

Sweet bud of life! thy future doom
Is present to my eyes,
And joyously I see thee bloom
In fortune’s fairest skies.

One day thy breast, scarce conscious now,
Shall burn with patriot flame;
And, fraught with love, that little brow
Shall wear the wreath of fame.

When I am dead, dear boy thou’lt take
These lines to thy regard; —
Imprint them on thy heart, and make
A prophet of the bard.