A little child, who had desired <br />To go and see the Park guns fired, <br />Was taken by his maid that way <br />Upon the next rejoicing day. <br />Soon as the unexpected stroke <br />Upon his tender organs broke, <br />Confused and stunned at the report, <br />He to her arms fled for support, <br />And begged to be conveyed at once <br />Out of the noise of those great guns, <br />Those naughty guns, whose only sound <br />Would kill (he said) without a wound: <br />So much of horror and offence <br />The shock had given his infant sense. <br /> <br /> <br />Yet this was he in after days <br />Who filled the world with martial praise, <br />When from the English quarter-deck <br />His steady courage swayed the wreck <br />Of hostile fleets, disturbed no more <br />By all that vast conflicting roar, <br />That sky and sea did seem to tear, <br />When vessels whole blew up in air, <br />Than at the smallest breath that heaves, <br />When Zephyr hardly stirs the leaves.<br /><br />Charles Lamb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-force-of-habit/
