A health to the nut-brown lass, With the hazel eyes: let it pass. . . . . As much to the lively grey 'Tis as good i' th' night as day: . . . . She's a savour to the glass, And excuse to make it pass.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high; "I drink to one," he said, "Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead." . . . . St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood Thus lightly to another; Then bent his noble head, as though To give the word the reverence due, And gently said, "My mother!"

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.

'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear;Heaven were not Heaven, if we knew what it were.

'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear; Heaven were not Heaven, if we knew what it were.

And he that will this health deny, Down among the dead men let him lie.