A Health


 * I fill this cup to one made up
 * Of loveliness alone,
 * A woman, of her gentle sex
 * The seeming paragon;
 * To whom the better elements
 * And kindly stars have given
 * A form so fair, that like the air,
 * 'Tis less of earth than heaven.


 * Her every tone is music's own,
 * Like those of morning birds,
 * And something more than melody
 * Dwells ever in her words;
 * The coinage of her heart are they,
 * And from her lips each flows
 * As one may see the burden'd bee
 * Forth issue from the rose.


 * Affections are as thoughts to her,
 * The measures of her hours;
 * Her feelings have the fragrancy,
 * The freshness of young flowers;
 * And lovely passions, changing oft,
 * So fill her, she appears
 * The image of themselves by turns,—
 * The idol of past years!


 * Of her bright face one glance will trace
 * A picture on the brain,
 * And of her voice in echoing hearts
 * A sound must long remain;
 * But memory, such as mine of her,
 * So very much endears,
 * When death is nigh my latest sigh
 * Will not be life's, but hers.


 * I fill'd this cup to one made up
 * Of loveliness alone,
 * A woman, of her gentle sex
 * The seeming paragon—
 * Her health! and would on earth there stood,
 * Some more of such a frame,
 * That life might be all poetry,
 * And weariness a name.