Who, once enchanted, drink in every tone,
Yet let Time chant their worship's requiem;
Forget how praises from their lips have flown,
And eager seek for matter to condemn:
None such thy friends—they prove with deed and heart
That Friendship is of Death a thing apart.
Oh! Patron Saint, sure thine's a brilliant doom!
We judge the future by the seasons past,
And judging thus, eternity will loom
Upon Creation ere thy name is classed