Thy converse drew us with delight,
⁠The men of rathe and riper years:
⁠The feeble soul, a haunt of fears,
Forgot his weakness in thy sight.

On thee the loyal-hearted hung,
⁠The proud was half disarm'd of pride,
⁠Nor cared the serpent at thy side
To flicker with his treble tongue.

The stern were mild when thou wert by,
⁠The flippant put himself to school
⁠And heard thee, and the brazen fool
Was soften'd, and he knew not why;

While I, thy dearest, sat apart,
⁠And felt thy triumph was as mine;
⁠And loved them more, that they were thine,
The graceful tact, the Christian art;