In toasts from Pickwick for thy great crusade,
Though while the echoes labored with thy name
The public trap denied thy little game,
Let other lips our jealous laws revile—
The marble Talfourd or the rude Carlyle;
But on thy lids, that Heaven forbids to close
Where’er the light of kindly nature glows,
Let not the dollars that a churl denies
Weigh like the shillings on a dead man’s eyes!
Or, if thou wilt, be more discreetly blind,