WHILE Friendship, Frances! spreads my Muse’s wing,
Dwells on thy virtues, and allures to sing,
If these weak hands could touch the lyre divine,
No name should sound with sweeter notes than thine.
Come then, thou fond companion of my way!
While through the soft Parnassian bow’rs I stray,
Let mem’ry oft well-pleas’d recal the hour,
When virtue planted Friendship’s heavenly flow’r.
Whene’er affliction bids this bosom sigh,
Straight grief unfeign’d bedews thy pitying eye;
Thy softest words soon banish all my care,
And brighten the dark prospect of despair.
If fortune now has frown’d my joys away,
With thick’ning clouds upon my youthful day,
This lesson she has taught my simple heart,
That where she frowns, our prosp’ring friends depart:
Yet some there are, above the vulgar flight,
Whom Friendship’s tender sympathies unite;
Beguiling life with innocence of mirth,
And struggling still to make a heaven of earth;
Whose tastes, whose thoughts, whose sentiments agree,
And constant, Frances, as my soul to thee!
(Emma Lyon)
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