To Mrs. Moor, A Poem on Friendship. Written in 1729. Mary Chandler Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T63103 Chandler, Mary, 1687-1745. The Description Of Bath. A Poem. Humbly Inscribed To Her Royal Highness the Princess Amelia. By Mrs. Mary Chandler. The Third Edition. To which are added, Several Poems by the same Author [poems only]. London Printed for James Leake, Bookseller in Bath 1736 pp. 60-62. 77p.

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To Mrs. Moor , A Poem on Friendship . Written in 1729. Friendship ! the heav'nly Theme I sing ; Source of the truest Joy ; From Sense such Pleasures never spring , Still new , that never cloy . 'Tis sacred Friendship gilds our Days , And smooths Life's ruffled Stream : Uniting Joys will Joys increase , And sharing lessen Pain . 'Tis pure as the etherial Flame , That lights the Lamps above ; Pure , as the Infant's Thought , from Blame ; Or , as his Mother's Love . From kind Benevolence it flows , And rises on Esteem . 'Tis false Pretence , that Int'rest shews , And fleeting as a Dream . The Wretch , to Sense and Self confin'd , Knows not the dear Delight ; For gen'rous Friendship wings the Mind , To reach an Angel's Height . Amidst the Crowd each Kindred Mind , True Worth superior spies : Tho' hid , the modest Veil behind , From less discerning Eyes . From whose Discourse Instruction flows , But Satire dares not wound . Their guiltless Voice no Flatt'ry knows , But scorns delusive Sound . While Truth divine inspires each Tongue , The Soul bright Knowledge gains . Such Adam ask'd , and Gabriel sung , In heav'nly Milton's Strains . Such the Companions of your Hours , And such your lov'd Employ ; Who would indulge your noblest Pow'rs , But know no guilty Joy . And thus as swift-wing'd Time brings on Death , nearer to our View ; Tun'd to sweet Harmony our Souls , We take a short Adieu . Till the last Trump's delightful Sound Shall wake our sleeping Clay ; Then swift , to find our Fellow-souls , As Light , we haste away .