On Burning A Packet Of Letters Received From A Friend At An Early Period Of Life, Whose Correspondence Had Lapsed Into Silence, And Whose Friendship Into Apathy. Poem by Joanna Baillie

COLD is the hand that gives thee to the flame,
Sweet source of pleasure in my early years!
But, O ye friends! to me impute no blame,
I mark its quick destruction thro' my tears.
Cold was the hand that at one cast destroy'd
Sweet friendship, which, upon that crackling scroll,
Depicted was; even where, with skill employ'd,
Her pen had traced the kindness of her soul.
Ah! why the proof of former joy preserve!
A present grief 'twere folly to retain;
Years to encrease the change would only serve,
And every change would add severer pain.