Poems (Cook)/'Tis sweet to Love in Childhood
'TIS SWEET TO LOVE IN CHILDHOOD.
'Tis sweet to love in Childhood, when the souls that we bequeath
Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreath;
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 strings.
Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreath;
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 strings.
'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 still hold 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!"
To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, hope, and pride;
To think the chain around our breast will still hold 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 ripen'd 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 lov'd 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.
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 lov'd 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.