Fugitive Pieces

  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 forever;
  E’en though the number did exceed,
  The yellow harvest’s countless seed,
  To part would be a vain endeavour,
  Could I desist?—­ah! never—­never.

November 16, 1806.

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Printed by S. and J. RIDGE, Newark.