TO ELLEN. 

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire; 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss; 
Nor then my soul should sated be, 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee: 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, 
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed; 
To part would be a vain endeavour: 
Could I desist?---ah! never---never.