To be found upon Earth—for a moment I bent

     A look upon you—and could swear on the spot

     That perfection in Beauty was not what he meant.

     And when, with emotion, the worthy Divine

     On the doctrine of loving our neighbours insisted,

     I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine,

     I could love every soul of them while I existed.

     And Mary, I'm sure 'twas the fault of those eyes—

     'Twas the lustre of them to the error gave birth—

     That, while he spoke of Angels that dwelt in the Skies,

     I was gazing with rapture at one upon Earth.

   A TOAST

     Here's a health to thee, Tom: a bright bumper we drain

     To the friends that our bosoms hold dear,

     As the bottle goes round, and again and again

     We whisper, "We wish

      he

     were here."

     Here's a health to thee, Tom: may the mists of this earth

     Never shadow the light of that soul

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