Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin [by James Grahame] |
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TO A LADY, ON HER SEEMING VAIN OF HER BLACK EYES. |
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 | Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin |  |
85
TO A LADY, ON HER SEEMING VAIN OF HER BLACK EYES.
Let others praise with ill-coin'd liesThe brightness of their fair one's eyes,
To thine, sweet Lady, I'll be juster,
Their very darkness is their lustre.
Ev'n in the sable gloom of night,
Like grimalkin's, the startled sight
They strike, or as the skin of whiting
Stuck on the wall poor imps to frighten.
In short, so piercing is their ray,
I wonder how in mirror they
Themselves can view; or how th'reflection,
Don't spoil your matchless fair complection;
Or how, when hearts are scorch'd to cinders,
Your looking-glass don't fly to flinders.
| Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin | |