4
A SHEAF GLEANED
Mild are those eyes; I love their light.
Is there no means to make them beam
A thousand years, as soft and bright?
There is, or else I fondly dream.
Some credit a new race must give
To praises flowing from my pen,
As I shall paint thee, thou shalt live
For ages in the eyes of men!
Think hereupon, fair Marchioness,
And though old age may scare the gay,
Deem not kind words that cheer and bless
Upon me wholly thrown away.
