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As frost to the bud, and blight to the blossom, even such is
self-interest to Friendship:
For Confidence cannot dwell where Selfishness is porter at the gate.
If thou see thy friend to be selfish, thou canst not be sure of his
honesty;
And in seeking thine own weal, thou hast wronged the reliance of thy
friend.
Flattery hideth her varnished face when Friendship sitteth at his board:
And the door is shut upon Suspicion, but Candour is bid glad welcome.
For Friendship abhorreth doubt, its life is in mutual trust,
And perisheth, when artful praise proveth it is sought for a purpose.
A man may be good to thee at times, and render thee mighty service,
Whom yet thy secret soul could not desire as a friend;
For the sum of life is in trifles, and though, in the weightier masses,
A man refuse thee not his purse, nay his all in thine utmost need,
Yet if thou canst not feel that his character agreeth with thine own,
Thou never wilt call him friend, though thou render him a heartful of
gratitude.
A coarse man grindeth harshly the finer feelings of his brother;
A common mind will soon depart from the dull companionship of wisdom;
A weak soul dareth not to follow in the track of vigour and decision;
And the worldly regardeth with scorn the seeming foolishness of faith.
A mountain is made up of atoms, and friendship of little matters,
And if the atoms hold not together, the mountain is crumbled into dust.
Come, I will show thee a friend; I will paint one worthy of thy trust:
Thine heart shall not weary of him: thou shalt not secretly despise him.
Thou art long in learning him, in unravelling all his worth;
And he dazzleth not thine eyes at first, to be darkened in thy sight
afterward,
But riseth from small beginnings, and reacheth the height of thine esteem.
He remembereth that thou art only man; he expecteth not great things from
thee:
And his forbearance toward thee silently teacheth thee to be considerate
unto him.
He despiseth not courtesy of manner, nor neglecteth the decencies of life:
Nor mocketh the failings of others, nor is harsh in his censures before
thee:
For so, how couldst thou tell, if he talketh not of thee in ridicule?
He withholdeth no secret from thee, and rejecteth not thine in turn;
He shareth his joys with thee, and is glad to bear part in thy sorrows.
Yet one thing, he loveth thee too well to show thee the corruptions of
his heart:
For as an ill example strengthened the hands of the wicked,
So to put forward thy guilt, is a secret poison to thy friend:
For the evil in his nature is comforted, and he warreth more weakly
against it,
If he find that the friend whom he honoureth, is a man more sinful than
himself.
I hear the communing of friends; ye speak out the fulness of your souls,
And being but men, as men, ye own to all the sympathies of manhood:
Confidence openeth the lips, indulgence beameth from the eye,
The tongue loveth not boasting, the heart is made glad with kindness:
And one standeth not as on a hill, beckoning to the other to follow,
But ye toil up hand in hand, and carry each other's burdens.
Ye commune of hopes and aspirations, the fervent breathings of the heart,
Ye speak with pleasant interchange the treasured secrets of affection,
Ye listen to the voice of complaint, and whisper the language of comfort,
And as in a double solitude, ye think in each other's hearing.
Choose thy friend discreetly, and see thou consider his station,
For the graduated scale of ranks accordeth with the ordinance of Heaven.
If a low companion ripen to a friend, in the full sunshine of thy
confidence,
Know, that for old age thou hast heaped up sorrow;
For thou sinkest to that level, and thy kin shall scorn thee,
Yea, and the menial thou hast pampered haply shall neglect thee in thy
death:
And if thou reachest up to high estates, thinking to herd with princes,
What art thou but a footstool, though so near a throne?
O rush among the lilies, be taught thou art a weed,
O briar among the cedars, hot contempt shall burn thee.
But thou, friend and scholar, select from thine own caste,
And make not an intimate of one, thy servant or thy master;
For only friendship among men is the true republic,
Where all have equality of service, and all have freedom of command.
And yet, if thou wilt take my judgment, be shy of too much openness with
any,
Lest thou repent hereafter, should he turn and rend thee:
For many an apostate friend hath abused unguarded confidence,
And bent to selfish ends the secret of the soul.
Absence strengthened friendship, where the last recollections were kindly;
But it must be good wine at the last, or absence shall weaken it daily.
A rare thing is faith, and friendship is a marvel among men,
Yet strange faces call they friends, and say they believe when they doubt.
Those hours are not lost that are spent in cementing affection;
For a friend is above gold, precious as the stores of the mind.
Be sparing of advice by words, but teach thy lesson by example:
For the vanity of man may be wounded, and retort unkindly upon thee.
There be some that never had a friend, because they were gross and
selfish;
Worldliness, and apathy, and pride, leave not many that are worthy:
But one who meriteth esteem, need never lack a friend:
For as thistle-down flieth abroad, and casteth its anchor in the soil,
So philanthropy yearneth for a heart, where it may take root and blossom.
Yet I hear the child of sensibility moaning at the wintry cold,
Wherein the mists of selfishness have wrapped the society of men:
He grieveth, and hath deep reasons; for falsehood hath wronged his trust,
And the breaches in his bleeding heart have been filled with the briars
of suspicion.
For, alas, how few be friends, of whom charity hath hoped well!
How few there be among men who forget themselves for other!
Each one seeketh his own, and looketh on his brethren as rivals,
Masking envy with friendship, to serve his secret ends.
And the world, that corrupteth all good, hath wronged that sacred name,
For it calleth any man friend, who is not known for an enemy:
And such be as the flies of summer, while plenty sitteth at thy board:
But who can wonder at their flight from the cold denials of want?
Such be as vultures round a carcase, assembled together for the feast;
But a sudden noise scareth them, and forthwith are they specks among the
clouds.
There be few, O child of sensibility, who deserve to have thy confidence;
Yet weep not, for there are some, and such some live for thee:
To them is the chilling world a drear and barren scene,
And gladly seek they such as thou art, for seldom find they the occasion:
For, though no man excludeth himself from the high capability of
friendship,
Yet verily the man is a marvel whom truth can write a friend.
[Illustration: Of Love]
Of Love.
There is a fragrant blossom, that maketh glad the garden of the heart;
Its root lieth deep: it is delicate, yet lasting, as the lilac crocus of
autumn:
Loneliness and thought are the dews that water it morn and even;
Memory and Absence cherish it, as the balmy breathings of the south:
Its sun is the brightness of Affection, and it bloometh in the borders of
Hope;
Its companions are gentle flowers, and the briar withereth by its side.
I saw it budding in beauty; I felt the magic of its smile;
The violet rejoiced beneath it, the rose stooped down and kissed it;
And I thought some cherub had planted there a truant flower of Eden,
As a bird bringeth foreign seeds, that they may flourish in a kindly soil.
I saw, and asked not its name; I knew no language was so wealthy,
Though every heart of every clime findeth its echo within.
And yet what shall I say? Is a sordid man capable of Love?
Hath a seducer known it? Can an adulterer perceive it?
Or he that seeketh strange women, can he feel its purity?
Or he that changeth often, can he know its truth?
Longing for another's happiness, yet often destroying its own;
Chaste, and looking up to God, as the fountain of tenderness and joy:
Quiet, yet flowing deep, as the Rhine among rivers;
Lasting, and knowing not change--it walketh with Truth and Sincerity.
Love:--what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear,
A seventh heaven in a glance, a whirlwind in a sigh,
The lightning in a touch, a millennium in a moment,
What concentrated joy or woe in blest or blighted love!
For it is that native poetry springing up indigenous to Mind,
The heart's own-country music thrilling all its chords,
The story without an end that angels throng to hear,
The word, the king of words, carved on Jehovah's heart!
Go, call thou snake-eyed malice mercy, call envy honest praise,
Count selfish craft for wisdom, and coward treachery for prudence,
Do homage to blaspheming unbelief as to bold and free philosophy,
And estimate the recklessness of license as the right attribute of
liberty,--
But with the world, thou friend and scholar, stain not this pure name;
Nor suffer the majesty of Love to be likened to the meanness of desire:
For love is no more such, than seraphs' hymns are discord,
And such is no more Love, than Etna's breath is summer.
Love is a sweet idolatry enslaving all the soul,
A mighty spiritual force, warring with the dulness of matter,
An angel-mind breathed into a mortal, though fallen yet how beautiful!
All the devotion of the heart in all its depth and grandeur.
Behold that pale geranium, pent within the cottage window;
How yearningly it stretcheth to the light its sickly long-stalked leaves,
How it straineth upward to the sun, coveting his sweet influences,
How real a living sacrifice to the god of all its worship!
Such is the soul that loveth; and so the rose-tree of affection
Bendeth its every leaf to look on those dear eyes,
Its every blushing petal basketh in their light,
And all its gladness, all its life, is hanging on their love.
If the love of the heart is blighted, it buddeth not again:
If that pleasant song is forgotten, it is to be learnt no more:
Yet often will thought look back, and weep over early affection;
And the dim notes of that pleasant song will be heard as a reproachful
spirit,
Moaning in Æolian strains over the desert of the heart,
Where the hot siroccos of the world have withered its one oasis.
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