George Lunt (1803–1885)

O FRIEND! whose genial spirit, by the gift

Of a most bounteous nature, flings a shower

Of magic light along life’s shadowed hour;

As when day’s sovereign lord, behind the rift

Of summer’s brooding cloud, but looks, to lift

Incumbent heaviness from earth and sky,

With the bright beam of his exulting eye;

Think not the spirit’s course, whose silent drift

Flows on more calmly than the sparkling stream,

Is sad though thoughtful, or must therefore seem

From secret care, to need some healing shrift;

Thine be, forever fresh and never coy,

The soul’s bright mood;—yet not less cheerful deem

The steadfast lustre of a sober joy!