Thou Hast Not Rais'd, Ianthe, Such Desire

Thou hast not rais'd, Ianthe, such desire
In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine. .
No wandering meteor now, no marshy fire,
Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine:
And, if thou dullest me, as chill thou dost
When I approach too near, too boldly gaze,
So chills the blushing morn, so chills the host
Of vernal stars, with light more chaste than day's.