FRIENDSHIP! mysterious cement of the soul; Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society,
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me, Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart, Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wandered heedless on. Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood Sweet murmuring: methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note: The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury
Of dress. Oh! then the longest summer's day Seemed too, too much in haste! still the full heart Had not imparted half; 'twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!
IN earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers I had-Ah! have I now ?-a friend! To him this ring I charge thee send, Memorial of a youthful vow;
I would remind him of mine end:
Though souls absorbed like mine allow Brief thought to distant friendship's claim Yet dear to him my blighted name. 'Tis strange-he prophesied my doom,
And I have smiled-I then could smileWhen Prudence would his voice assume, And warn-I recked not what-the while And now remembrance whispers o'er Those accents scarcely marked before. Say-that his bodings came to pass,
And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth: Tell him, unheeding as I was,
Through many a bitter scene
Of all our golden youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory ere I died;
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name; And what have I to do with fame? I do not ask him not to mourn,
Such cold request might sound like scorn; And what than friendship's manly tear May better grace a brothers bier ? And bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him-what thou dost behold! The withered frame, the ruined mind, The wrack by passion left behind, A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf, Seared by the Autumn blast of grief!
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you deny'd me: Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces!
DEAR Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with
O'er us have glided almost fifty years,
Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen, By those whose eyes long closed in death have
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather The slender hare-bell or the purple heather; No taller than the fox-gloves spiky stem, That dew of morning studs with silvery gem. Then every butterfly that crossed our view With joyful shout was greeted as it flew, And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright In sheeny gold were each a wondrous sight. Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side, Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde, Minnows or spotted par with twinkling fin, Swimming in mazy rings the pool within, A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent Seen in the power of early wonderment.
A long perspective in my mind appears, Looking behind me to that line of years, And yet through every stage I still can trace
The visioned form, from childhood's morning
To woman's early bloom, changing how soon! To the expressive glow of woman's noon; And now to what thou art, in comely age, Active and ardent. Let what will engage Thy present moment, whether hopeful seeds In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore, In chronicle or legend rare explore, Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play, Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way To gain with hasty steps some cottage door, On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor Active and ardent-to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young in spite of time gone by Though oft of patience brief and temper keer. Well may it please me in life's latter scene,
To think what now thou art and long to me hast been.
'Twas thou who woo'd'st me first to look Upon the page of printed book,
That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness, When all too old become with bootless haste In fitful sports the precious time to waste. Thy love of tale and story was the stroke At which my dormant fancy first awoke, And ghosts and witches in my busy brain Arose in sombre show, a motley train. This new-found path attempting, proud was I, Lurking approval on thy face to spy, P
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