O There Is Not A Sharper Dart.

O THERE IS NOT A SHARPER DART.

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.