A Toast

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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
Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth
To illumine the depths of the Bowl.

With a world full of beauty and fun for a theme,
And a glass of good wine to inspire,
E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam
That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood,
Our pleasures are tasteless and dim,
For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude
Make us feel we're but happy with him.

Like the Triumph of old where the absent one threw
A cloud o'er the glorious scene,
Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you,
And think of the nights that have been.

When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight
Fled away with the rapturous hours,
And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night,
Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.

When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn,
Shedding lustre and life where it fell,
As the sunlight, in which the tall mountain tops burn,
Paints each bud in the lowliest dell.

When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed
With humour and deviltry shone,
And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed,
Had mirth in its every tone.

Then a health to thee, Tom: ev'ry bumper we drain
But renders thy image more dear,
As the bottle goes round, and again and again,
We wish, from our hearts, you were here.

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A Toast