LINES.

When all a woman’s eye is fire,

And ev’ry look the passions move,

The voice as sweet as Nature’s lyre—

What can a poor man do but love?

When all his light is in one eye,

And all his heaven within one breast—

Oh! blame him not, if he doth sigh

For light like this to make him blest!

Then blame him not—oh! blame him not,

For madness only is his crime,—

Oh! never will you be forgot,

While all your image is on time.

A heart like thine—an eye so bright,

Will ever all the passions move—

When gazing on those eyes of light,

What can a poor man do but love?

J. T.