BUTTERCUPS. 
53 
When we feed the gentle robin, and caress the leaping 
hound, 
And linger latest on the spot where buttercups are 
found : 
When we seek the bee and ladybird with laughter, shout, 
and song, 
And think the day for wooing them can never be too 
long. 
Oh ! ’tis sweet to love in childhood, and though stirred 
by meanest things, 
The music that the heart yields then will never leave 
its stings. 
’Tis sweet to love in after years the dear one by our 
side ; 
To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, hope, and 
pride; 
To think the chain around our breast will hold still 
warm and fast, 
And grieve to know that death must come to break the 
link at last. 
But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning, hue by 
hue ; 
When eyes forget their kindly beams, and lips become 
less true ; 
When stricken hearts are pining on through many a 
lonely hour, 
Who would not sigh ‘ ’tis safer far to love the bird and 
flower ? ’ 
’Tis sweet to love in ripened age the trumpet blast of 
Fame, 
To pant to live on Glory’s scroll, though blood may 
trace the name; 
