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.