’Tis sweet companionship to hold
With childhood in its hour of mirth;—
And ne’er be heart of mine so cold
As not to estimate its worth.
’Tis good in lowly life to trace
And pause o’er every sunny spot,
Whose gentle, unobtrusive grace
Adorns the peasant’s humble lot.
And, therefore, with a grateful heart
I gaze upon a group like this,
And freely praise the mimic art
Which bodied forth this scene of bliss.
Dearer to me that humble home,
With verdant foliage mantled o’er,
Than many a rich and stately dome,
With pamper’d menials at its door.
Lovelier those lowly quadrupeds
Which stand with patient meekness there,
As if they bow’d their willing heads
The happy children’s sport to share;—
More graceful are they in my sight
Than steeds adorn’d with trappings proud,
Or pannell’d coach with arms bedight,
The marvel of a vulgar crowd.
And more delightful far to me
Than wealth’s cold splendour, fashion’s noise,
The quiet and contented glee
Of those sweet children’s cottage joys.
Loveliest of all, to feel and know
That happiness, denied to none,
Dwells not in outward pomp or show,
But by the poorest may be won.
Go! trace her steps the wide earth round,
And thou shalt own, thy travel o’er,
She ne’er in sweeter guise is found
Than by the peasant’s cottage door!