TO IAN THE. Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless decm'd; Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dream’d, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd. Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beam’d— To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee what language could they Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Young Peri of the West!—'tis well for me But mix’d with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? |