HE INVITES HIS EYES TO FEAST THEMSELVES ON LAURA.

My wearied eyes! while looking thus
On that fair fatal face to us,
Be wise, be brief, for—hence my sighs—
Already Love our bliss denies.
Death only can the amorous track
Shut from my thoughts which leads them back
To the sweet port of all their weal;
But lesser objects may conceal
Our light from you, that meaner far
In virtue and perfection are.
Wherefore, poor eyes! ere yet appears,
Already nigh, the time of tears,
Now, after long privation past,
Look, and some comfort take at last.

Macgregor.