Pray, let my pen interpret now
The silent throbbings of my heart,—
Believe me when I make this vow—
My gratitude can ne’er depart.
Thou hast rebuked me, I must own,
With smart precision, and ’tis just;
But still there’s with it meetly flown
The rod of love, which ne’er can rust.
Oh! think not this, “that I can be
A creature without gratitude:”
On foreign lands; the briny sea;
In north and southern latitude,
I’ve ponder’d ’neath the starry height—
Thank’d thee, dear John, my dearest friend;
Dwelt o’er past pleasures with delight,
And shall till Death defines my end.
Then, let no angry thoughts possess
Your mind, or mine; my mind, nor your’s;
I seek to offer you redress;
And when thine eye upon it soars,
You, too, I’m sure, will say (with me,)
“Come what there may—our love’s the same.”
So now, dear friend, pray let there be
No future enmity, or blame.
[102] Composed on the occasion of receiving a letter from his great
friend, J. Cutcliffe, Esq., complaining of the Author’s negligence in
correspondence, and which “few lines” form’d part of his letter, in
reply. 1865.