COLD is the hand that gives thee to the flame,
Sweet source of pleasure in my early years!
But, O ye friends! to me impute no blame,
I mark its quick destruction thro' my tears.
Cold was the hand that at one cast destroy'd
Sweet friendship, which, upon that crackling scroll,
Depicted was; even where, with skill employ'd,
Her pen had traced the kindness of her soul.
Ah! why the proof of former joy preserve!
A present grief 'twere folly to retain;
Years to encrease the change would only serve,
And every change would add severer pain.