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.…