To Myra

O thou whose tender serious eyes
Expressive speak the mind I love —
The gentle azure of the skies,
The pensive shadows of the grove —

O mix their beauteous beams with mine,
And let us interchange our hearts ;
Let all their sweetness on me shine,
Poured through my soul be all their darts.

Ah, 'tis too much ! I cannot bear
At once so soft, so keen a ray :
In pity then, my lovely fair,
O turn those killing eyes away !

But what avails it to conceal
One charm where nought but charms I see?
Their lustre then again reveal,
And let me, Myra, die of thee !