Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/29

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There is a friend who loves me still;—unchanged By all the errors of my devious way, When fickle fancies have my plans deranged Or hurtful follies lured my steps astray, Her tenderness remain'd:—nor would she grieve The lonely trusting one, that in her shade did live.

Amid the wayward freaks of childish haste,— Amid the wanderings of my youthful lot, When toys deluded, or when phantoms chased, Some sooth'd and promised,—then their care forgot; But one hath loved me still: the friend who sleeps Where the long herbage sighs and where remembrance weeps.

When Friendship's alter'd brow withheld its smile, When cold and stern, her cordial welcome fled; Though like a pilgrim, fainting mid his toil, Even in its pangs my struggling heart has said, One friend there is, who loves me still,—above;— The grave hath changed her form, but could not chill her love.

Reprove me not!—I trust she loves me still, Though cold, and mute, and motionless her dust, For when my heart hath felt affliction's thrill, Or swoln to bursting, mourn'd its broken trust; Soft on the breeze of heaven, a voice would sigh "Despond not thus, my child, my spirit hovers nigh."—