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Or, when our school-day task was o'er, As through the garden's sweets we'd ramble,The butterfly, from flow'r to flow'r, Pursue with many a sportive gambol?
Oh! these are scenes of infancy Which mem'ry ever loves to treasure;The happy hours of thoughtless glee, Of short-liv'd pain, and purest pleasure:
The hours when mirth's tumultuous sway Dries up the new-fall'n tears of sorrow;Enjoys the pleasures of to-day, Nor dreads to meet the coming morrow,
As farther on life's rugged way, With anxious footstep quickly pressing,The more from childhood's haunts we stray, The dearer seems each faded blessing,
Say, if, untainted still, thy mind Each gentle virtue makes its dwelling;And if thy heart, still true and kind, With sympathy's warm throb is swelling?
When sorrow's mournful tale is told, Are tear-drops from thine eye-lids stealing;Or has thine heart, grown hard and cold, Turn'd callous to each tender feeling?
