Page:Poems Cook.djvu/58

Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare,
Of sober speech and silver hair;
Who carry counsel, wise and sage,
With all the gravity of age:
Oh! say, do ye not like to hear
The accents ringing in your ear,
When sportive urchins laugh and shout,
Tossing those precious flowers about,
Springing with bold and gleesome bound,
 Proclaiming joy that crazes;
And chorussing the magic sound
 Of "Buttercups and Daisies?"

Are there, I ask, beneath the sky
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie
With Childhood's love? Can any please
Or light the infant eye like these?
No, no; there's not a bud on earth
Of richest tint, or warmest birth,
Can ever fling such zeal and zest
Into the tiny hand and breast.
Who does not recollect the hours
 When burning words and praises
Were lavish'd on those shining flowers,
 "Buttercups and Daisies?"

There seems a bright and fairy spell
About their very names to dwell;
And though old Time has mark'd my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings
Are closest link'd to simplest things;
And these wild flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all he past:
And then the only wish I have
 Is, that the one who raises
The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave
 With "Buttercups and Daisies."

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