To
Mrs.
Moor
,
A
Poem
on
Friendship
.
Written
in
1729.
Friendship
!
the
heav'nly
Theme
I
sing
;
Source
of
the
truest
Joy
;
From
Sense
such
Pleasures
never
spring
,
Still
new
,
that
never
cloy
.
'Tis
sacred
Friendship
gilds
our
Days
,
And
smooths
Life's
ruffled
Stream
:
Uniting
Joys
will
Joys
increase
,
And
sharing
lessen
Pain
.
'Tis
pure
as
the
etherial
Flame
,
That
lights
the
Lamps
above
;
Pure
,
as
the
Infant's
Thought
,
from
Blame
;
Or
,
as
his
Mother's
Love
.
From
kind
Benevolence
it
flows
,
And
rises
on
Esteem
.
'Tis
false
Pretence
,
that
Int'rest
shews
,
And
fleeting
as
a
Dream
.
The
Wretch
,
to
Sense
and
Self
confin'd
,
Knows
not
the
dear
Delight
;
For
gen'rous
Friendship
wings
the
Mind
,
To
reach
an
Angel's
Height
.
Amidst
the
Crowd
each
Kindred
Mind
,
True
Worth
superior
spies
:
Tho'
hid
,
the
modest
Veil
behind
,
From
less
discerning
Eyes
.
From
whose
Discourse
Instruction
flows
,
But
Satire
dares
not
wound
.
Their
guiltless
Voice
no
Flatt'ry
knows
,
But
scorns
delusive
Sound
.
While
Truth
divine
inspires
each
Tongue
,
The
Soul
bright
Knowledge
gains
.
Such
Adam
ask'd
,
and
Gabriel
sung
,
In
heav'nly
Milton's
Strains
.
Such
the
Companions
of
your
Hours
,
And
such
your
lov'd
Employ
;
Who
would
indulge
your
noblest
Pow'rs
,
But
know
no
guilty
Joy
.
And
thus
as
swift-wing'd
Time
brings
on
Death
,
nearer
to
our
View
;
Tun'd
to
sweet
Harmony
our
Souls
,
We
take
a
short
Adieu
.
Till
the
last
Trump's
delightful
Sound
Shall
wake
our
sleeping
Clay
;
Then
swift
,
to
find
our
Fellow-souls
,
As
Light
,
we
haste
away
.