Written For My Son In His Sickness, To One Of His School fellows.

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I little thought that honest Dick
Would slight me so, when I was sick.
Is he a Friend, who only stays,
Whilst Health and Pleasure gild our Days;
Flies, when Disease our Temper sours,
Nor helps to pass the gloomy Hours?

Says my Mamma, who loves to make
Reflections for her Childrens sake;
You see how mortal Friendship ends--
My Child, secure celestial Friends:
Make Heav'n your chief, your early Care;
You'll meet no Disappointment there.
Build not on Length of Days, my Son;
Life's longest Race is quickly run.
Lay hold on ev'ry coming Hour;
Do all the Good that's in your Pow'r:
This will the sinking Heart sustain,
When Cordials are dispens'd in vain;
Asswage the racking Pains, that seize
On Limbs devoted to Disease;
The Place of fleeting Friends supply;
Pour balmy Slumbers on thine Eye;
Shield thee from Terrors of the Night,
And wing thy Pray'rs to Realms of Light;
Thy ev'ry painful Care dismiss,
And crown thee with eternal Bliss.

© Mary Barber