A Creole boy from the West Indies brought, <br />To be in European learning taught, <br />Some years before to Westminster he went, <br />To a preparatory school was sent. <br />When from his artless tale the mistress found, <br />The child had not one friend on English ground, <br />She, even as if she his own mother were, <br />Made the dark Indian her peculiar care. <br />Oft on her favourite's future lot she thought; <br />To know the bent of his young mind she sought, <br />For much the kind preceptress wished to find <br />To what profession he was most inclined, <br />That where his genius led they might him train; <br />For nature's kindly bent she held not vain. <br />But vain her efforts to explore his will; <br />The frequent question he evaded still: <br />Till on a day at length he to her came, <br />Joy sparkling in his eyes; and said, the same <br />Trade he would be those boys of colour were, <br />Who danced so happy in the open air. <br />It was a troop of chimney-sweeping boys, <br />With wooden music and obstreperous noise, <br />In tarnished finery and grotesque array, <br />Were dancing in the street the first of May.<br /><br />Charles Lamb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/choosing-a-profession/
