To Miss M-----

Sweet gentle angel, not that I aspire
To win they favor, though ambition raise
My wishes high, I wake anew my lays;
But that thine image may adorn my lyre
With beauty, more than fancy could inspire!
As, when behind the silver clouds she strays,
The moon peeps through, and sheds a mellow blaze,
Till woods, hills, valleys, with enchantment fire;
So does they soul, though pent in mortal mold,
Break through the brightened veil; illume thy form;
With softened lights each varied feature warm;
And in thine eyes such fairy radiance hold,
That on each object round they beam a magic charm.

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