| The fane of memory is in the heart, |
| And love and friendship keep in turn the key; |
| Pale melancholy acts the guardian's part, |
| And drives all idle visitors away. |
| 5 Of gaiety or joy she takes no heed, |
| And records writ by pleasure doth efface; |
| But in her treasured tablets you may read |
| The characters that sorrow loves to trace. |
| To gratitude she leaves an ample page, |
| 10 And marks what springs from pure affection's source; |
| She blots the notes of envy, hate, or rage, |
| But writes in never-fading words -- remorse. |
| Let those who'd visit pensive
mem'ry's fane, |
| Acquaintance seek with friendship and with love; |
| 15 Nor melancholy treat with cold disdain, |
| Or ne'er the smiles of memory will they prove. |
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