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
.