Oh! blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you,
Nor suppose that my thoughts from the Preacher were straying,
Tho' I stole a few glances--believe me 'tis true--
They were sweet illustrations of what he was saying.
For, when he observed that Perfection was not
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.