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Friends who have loved us in the pleasant years 
Of childhood, dead, or parted far away ; 
The seeming kind ones, whose deceiving tears 
Flowed for a time, then left us for the gay; 
The cold, the false; — all then to memory start, 
And deeply trace their records on the heart; 
For, like the Dahlia , ‘heartless beauty’s flower,’ 
We proved them worthless in the trial hoar! 
And those whom Destiny relentless sways 
To seek afar stern labor’s bright reward, — 
Are they forgotten, when the mind surveys 
Objects which thrilling touch each sacred chord 
Of feeling to its source of sad and sweet, 
Where mingling streams of grief and gladness meet ? 
Ah, no! for them shall memory twine her wreath 
Of fadeless flowers, upon life’s path to bloom, 
Till true hearts breaking, calmly rest beneath 
The gloom oblivious of the silent tomb! 
