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,
⁠  Thou 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 controul,
⁠  Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.