If all the daughters of the sun
Have loving looks and eyes of flame.
Go, tell me not that she is one —
’Twas from the wintry moon she came
And yet, sweet eye! thou ne’er wert given
To kindle what thou dost not feel;
And yet, thou flushing lip — by heaven!
Thou ne’er wert made for Dian’s seal!
Oh! for a sunbeam, rich and warm
From thy own Ganges’ fervid haunts.
To light thee up, thou lovely fonn!
To all my soul adores and wants:
To see thee burn — to faint and sigh
Upon that bosom as it blaz’d.
And be myself the first to die.
Amid the flame myself had rais’d!