O there is not a sharper dart
Can pierce the mourner's suffering heart,
Than when the friend we love and trust
Tramples that friendship into dust,--
Forgets the sacred, honour'd claim,
And proves it but an empty name!

I almost as a sister lov'd thee,
And thought that nothing could have mov'd thee!
But, like the dewdrops on a spray
That shrinks before the morning ray,--
Like the frail sunshine on the stream,
Thy friendship faded as a dream.

When sickness and when sorrow tried me,
Thy aid--thy friendship was denied me;
Thy love was but a summer flower,
And could not stand the wintry shower:
More for thyself than me I grieve
Thou could'st thus cruelly deceive.