To M

    With bright， but mild affection shine：

    Though they might kindle¹ less desire，

    Love， more than mortal， would be thine.

    For thou art form'd so heavenly fair，

    Howe'er those orbs² may wildly beam，

    We must admire， but still despair；

    That fatal glance forbids esteem³.

    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 lurk⁴，

    Within those once celestial⁵ eyes.

    These might the boldest Sylph appall⁶，

    When gleaming with meridian⁷ blaze；

    Thy beauty must enrapture⁸ all；

    But who can dare thine ardent⁹ gaze？

    'Tis said that Berenice's hair，

    In stars adorns¹⁰ the vault¹¹ 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.