To Mary

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.