THE FRIENDS.

Frank's long, dull letter, lying by

The gay sash from Honoria's waist,

Reproach'd me; passion spared a sigh

For friendship without fault disgraced.

How should I greet him? how pretend

I felt the love he once inspired?

Time was when either, in his friend,

His own deserts with joy admired;

We took one side in school-debate,

Like hopes pursued with equal thirst,

Were even-bracketed by Fate,

Twin-Wranglers, seventh from the First;

And either loved a lady's laugh

More than all music; he and I

Were perfect in the pleasant half

Of universal charity.

From pride of likeness thus I loved

Him, and he me, till love begot

The lowliness which now approved

Nothing but that which I was not,

Blest was the pride of feeling so

Subjected to a girl's soft reign.

She was my vanity, and, oh,

All other vanities how vain!

Frank follow'd in his letter's track,

And set my guilty heart at ease

By echoing my excuses back

With just the same apologies.

So he had slighted me as well!

Nor was my mind disburthen'd less

When what I sought excuse to tell

He of himself did first confess.

Each, rapturous, praised his lady's worth;

He eloquently thus:‘ Her face

Is the summ'd sweetness of the earth,

Her soul the glass of heaven's grace,

To which she leads me by the hand;

Or, briefly all the truth to say

To you, who briefly understand,

She is both heaven and the way.

Displeasures and resentments pass

Athwart her charitable eyes

More fleetingly than breath from glass,

Or truth from foolish memories;

Her heart's so touch'd with others’ woes

She has no need of chastisement;

Her gentle life's conditions close,

Like God's commandments, with content,

And make an aspect calm and gay,

Where sweet affections come and go,

Till all who see her, smile and say,

How fair, and happy that she's so!

She is so lovely, true, and pure,

Her virtue virtue so endears,

That often, when I think of her,

Life's meanness fills mine eyes with tears —’

‘ You paint Miss Churchill! Pray go on —’

‘ She's perfect, and, if joy was much

To think her nature's paragon,

‘ Tis more that there's another such!’

Praising and paying back their praise

With rapturous hearts, t'ward Sarum Spire

We walk'd, in evening's golden haze,

Friendship from passion stealing fire.

In joy's crown danced the feather jest,

And, parting by the Deanery door,

Clasp'd hands, less shy than words, confess'd

We had not been true friends before.