Epistle To A Friend.

A poem by Thomas Gent

Give me the wreath of friendship true,
Whose flowerets fade not in a breath:
From memory gaining many a hue,
To bloom beyond the touch of death.

And I will send it to thy home--
Thy home beloved, my faithful friend!
And pray for its perpetual bloom
And every bliss that earth can send.

Within its magic wreath I'd place
Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower;
To win thee by their matchless grace,
And cheer and bless the lonely hour.

When at the world's unkind return
Of all thy worth, and all thy care,
Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn,
And shed the sad, the bitter, tear.

Then, midst this holy grief of thine,
The thought of some true friend may bless,
And cheer the gloom like angel's smile,
Or sunbeam in a wilderness.

And could I hope I had a claim
On thee in such a rapturous hour?
Oh! that, indeed, I'd own were fame.
The saving ark of friendship's power.

Or that, in future years, thy babes
Should o'er this frail memorial bend,
(For first affection rarely fades!)
And boast that I was once the friend

Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm,
By Parents loved, and them caress'd.
That spell would every sorrow calm,
And bid my anxious spirit rest!

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