Celestial happiness! Whene’er she stoops To visit earth, one shrine the goddess finds, And one alone, to make her sweet amends For absent heaven,--the bosom of a _friend_, Where heart meets heart, reciprocally soft, Each other’s pillow to repose divine. _Young._ A _friend_ is worth all hazards we can run, Poor is the _friendless_ master of a world; A world in purchase of a _friend_ is gain. _Dr. Young._ _Friend_ of the _friendless_ and the faint! Where should I lodge my deep complaint? Where, but with Thee, whose open door Invites the helpless and the poor? Did ever mourner plead with Thee, And Thou refuse that mourner’s plea? Does not that word still fixed remain, That “none shall seek thy face in vain?” _Cowper._ To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth, With power to grace them, or to crown with health, Our little lot denies; but Heaven decrees To all, the gift of minist’ring to ease: The gentle offices of patient love, Beyond all flattery, and all praise above; The mild forbearance of another’s fault, The taunting word suppress’d as soon as thought; On these Heaven bade the sweets of life depend; And crush’d ill fortune when she gave a _friend_. A solitary blessing few can find; Our joys with those we love are intertwined; And he whose wakeful tenderness removes Th’ obstructing thorn which wounds the breast he loves, Smoothes not another’s rugged path alone, But scatters roses to adorn his own. _Hannah More._ There is a _Friend_, more tender, true, Than brother e’er can be, Who, when all others bid adieu, Remains--the last to flee; Who, be their pathway bright or dim, Deserts not those who turn to Him. The heart by Him sustained, though deep Its anguish, still can bear! The soul He condescends to keep, Shall never know despair; In nature’s weakness, sorrow’s night, God is its strength, its joy, its light. _Barton._ _Friend_ after _friend_ departs; Who hath not lost a _friend_? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end; Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying none were blest. _J. Montgomery._ _Friendship_, thou charmer of the mind, Thou sweet deluding ill, The brightest minute mortals find, And sharpest hour we feel. Fate has divided all our shares Of pleasure and of pain; In love the comforts and the cares Are mixed and joined again. But whilst in floods our sorrow rolls, And drops of joy are few, This dear delight of mingling souls Serves but to swell our woe.