To A. ------

A poem by Lord George Gordon Byron


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 appal,
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 would'st 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.

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