Addressed To A Friend, Accompanied By A Brooch Containing Hair Arranged As A Lute Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

Go little lute with tresses bound,
Affection's messenger thou art;
Mute—mute to all beside thy sound,
Thine is the language of the heart.
Though time flies fast, and dull decay
Broods o'er all sublunary things;
Though sorrow darkens o'er our day,
There's healing on sweet friendship's wings.
Then scorn not to accept, my friend,
An offering from a heart sincere;
Though small and worthless what I send,
'Tis hallowed by affection's tear.