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To M
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form`d so heavenly fair,
Howe`er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp`d thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear`d that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
`Tis said that Berenice`s hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne`er permit thee there,
Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E`en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
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