BUTTERCUPS. 65 
'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; 
T o 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; 
'Tis sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it to our 
breast,— 
To trust it as the guiding star and anchor of our rest. 
But such devotion will not serve—however strong the 
zeal— 
To overthrow the altar where our childhood loved to kneel. 
Some bitter moment shall o’ercast the sun of wealth and 
power, 
And then proud man would fain go back to worship bird 
and flower. 
F 
