TO MISS ——, OF NORFOLK.

Which ever way my vision turns,
To heaven or earth, I see thee there,
In every star thy eyebeam burns,
Thy breath in every balmy air;
Thy words seem truth herself enshrined,
Sweet as the seraph minstrel sung,
And thou, in dignity of mind,
An angel with a silver tongue.
What dreams of bliss entrance the soul,
When Persians watch their idol light,
What pleasing visions o'er them roll
Caught from his beams serene and bright,
Thus, when a sparkling ray is given,
From eyes so soft, so pure as thine—
We feel as though our earth were heaven
And thou its radiant light divine.