Poems, on various subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fair proof of Friendship! be thy numbers strong,
Paint high her raptures in thine artless Song;
Her beauties ask, Idea all divine,
While Passion daunted, drops beneath the line.

But can thy lovely form, pointed by Art
More deeply strike the feelings of the heart
Than this poor quill? Which now neglected lies,
Tho' oft it bade the willing transport rise?

No; avaricious souls alone can know
Superior ardours, if from thee they flow.
Yet, Friendship consecrates thee at her shine,
And while her blaze ascends, the off'ring's mine.

O, Friendship! social angel, never seen,
But thro' the mists of woe and anguish keen;
Soul of this lower world! whose genial ray
Strikes more refulgent than the God of Day;
On gloomy space thy brightest glories rest,
With flaming light on firm Rinaldo's breast:
Come then, thou emblem of his purest thought!
First-born of sentiment, with essence fraught;
Warm my chill'd soul, from Insult languid grown;
Seize all her pow'rs, and seal them for thine own.

I hold thee! on thy strongest plume I go!
Before thee melt vast worlds of frozen woe.
Lo! down they sink—while clasp'd in thy embrace,
Old Time smiles on me and forgets his race.

My God! what is this life to Friendship lost?
Like spirits stranded on a joyless coast,
We solitary pine our hours away,
To Doubt, Suspicion, and Despair a prey.
We see those virtues, which we dare approve,
In some unnotic'd mind; our wishes move,
With rapid haste, her kindest thought to share,
And lose Affliction in her pitying tear.
But oh, Distrust! thou basilisk most fell,
In whose death-darting eye destructions dwell,
Thou, fast'ning on the soul, freezest her joys,
While thy curst breath her infant hope destroys.

What's Wealth enjoy'd, unsocial and unknown,
Meeting the tear of Merit with a frown?
Ungenial Miser! thou shalt never know
The secret raptures which spontaneous flow
From Friendship's bosom; but thy date expir'd,
Sink down, nor lov'd, lamented, nor admir'd.

But, ah! what wild emotions sill the breast,
When we behold a valu'd friend distrest!
Rule, from the ardent soul is quickly thrown,
She rushes on, makes every woe her own;
Strangles the images of grief which lie
At his sad heart—by Friendship's hand they die;
Lull'd by her voice the sigh forgets to rise,
And the full torrent leaves the trembling eyes.

Extatic, dear employ! would gracious Heav'n
Add to those blessings it has kindly given,
These raptures should be mine; but who can prove
Thy force, O Friendship, in ideal Love!

Too pow'rful Wealth, thou must this Angel guide,
Yea, raise her hand to Mis'ry's bleeding side;
Else all her tender murmurs are in vain,
For pow'rless feelings must support their Pain.

Yet, Friendship! without thee, who would receive
That balm, which haughty Wealth with scorn may give;
Her cures may reach externals, leave them whole,
But never! never! heal the wounded soul.

The cooly-wise, with self-applauding glance,
And taunting air, cries, “Friendship's all romance!
“It ne'er existed, but in pleasing sound;
“Nor has it been, or ever will be found.
“Have we not seen the World? Do we not know,
“How far its rapid streams exactly flow?
“'Tis to relieve Distress—this is the sum,
“But let your Prudence point out what's to come.
“Keep wretches humble, for when once reliev'd,
“They oft-times prove our Charity deceiv'd:
“Therefore be cautious, nor their merits trust;
“They may have very few—if poor—they must.
“Think not a savage virtuous—but confine,
“His future acts by obligation's line:
“He surely must be humble, grateful, true,
“While he's dependent—the superiour you.”

Hence, hoary caitiff! where's the gen'rous flame
Which fills two bosoms, lively and the same;
That dear seraphie ardour, strength of soul,
On which we shoot from Indus to the Pole?

Grant me, ye Pow'rs, the sympathetic bliss;
Oh! let my highest privilege be this,
To snatch my Friend from Mis'ry's iron breast,
And point his joyless eye to future rest.

When, in lethargic woe, the Passions sleep,
When all we own, is but to think and weep,
Soft Friendship's voice is heard: but you, who rest
On doubtful colours; you, who make a jest
Of purer Friendship—conscious of your fault,
It is not souls like your's, I would assault.

With sentiment unknown, by you unfelt,
Virtue alone could ne'er your bosoms melt.

But giving Passion her delusive reign,
With bandag'd eyes she drives you o'er the plain;
Nor know you when to pause, or where decline,
But by your hasty journey—measure mine.

Away, ye dupes! yet hail, ye sacred few,
Who feel those mental joys to Friendship due,
And on them moveless rest; to you, my lay,
Tho' rough, congenial, would its tribute pay.

My late-discover'd soul, like Nature's mine,
With gems, you boast, may yet too faintly shine;

But give your polish'd lustre, tho' I claim
No native glory, I will catch your flame;
Like Luna shine, rememb'ring whence I stole
The brightest ardours of the Female Soul.

Ah, valued Pen! why thus the task decline;
Will not thy beauties swell the glowing line?
Lo, Rapture dies!—hast thou the magic pow'r,
To raise my spirit in her drooping hour?
No; rest—while thought to rural toil descends,
Resigning ev'ry Image—but my Friend's.