Classic Poem

The simplest boon from Friendship's hand,
(Even unpolished lines like these,)
May oft a prized memento stand,
When prouder gifts no longer please.

And may not in some coming year
This lay arrest mine Anna's eye?—
While pensive memory waking here,
Breathes o'er the faded past a sigh?

Ah, sigh she must! for is there one
That doth not mourn lost hours of youth,
When every voice breath'd friendship's tone,
And every bosom beat with truth?

When all the future, gayly dress'd
In hope's delusive, witching hue,
Seem'd to invite us to be blest,
And promis'd fair—but falsely too!

The fragrant flowers, the sunny smile,
With which our pathway hope adorns,
In prospect glow a little while—
Then fading, leave us night and thorns.

Yet be not such her fate, to whom
These votive, tuneless lines are given;
For her perennial verdure bloom,
And this life prove a path to heaven.