Page:Amulet 1830.pdf/4

Rh

Thy friends, thou wert too delicate For many to be thine; And like words written on the sands Are those on Friendship's shrine: A few set words, a few vain tears, And so is clos'd the faith of years.

The world it had no part in thee; Too sensitive to bear Unkindness or repulse; too true The usual mask to wear: Alas! the gold too much refined, Is not for common use designed.

Thy dreams of fame were vague and void, The mystery of a star, Whose glory lifted us from earth, The beautiful, the far; And yet these dreams of fame to thee Were dearer than reality.

Alas! e'en these have been in vain, The prize has not been won; Thy lute is a forgotten lute,— Thy name, a nameless one: The wild wind in the pine tree bough, Is all the requiem for thee now.