Like the Triumph of old where the absent one threw
A cloud o'er the glorious scene,
Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you,
And think of the nights that have been.
When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight
Fled away with the rapturous hours,
And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night,
Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.
When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn,
Shedding lustre and life where it fell,