WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD

When Love was a child, and went idling round,

‘ Mong flowers the whole summer's day,

One morn in the valley a bower he found,

So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,

A fountain ran darkly beneath;—

‘ Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there;

Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath.

But Love did n't know — and, at his weak years,

What urchin was likely to know?—

That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears

The fountain that murmured below.

He caught at the wreath — but with too much haste,

As boys when impatient will do —

It fell in those waters of briny taste,

And the flowers were all wet through.

This garland he now wears night and day;

And, tho’ it all sunny appears

With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say,

Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.