WHEN I beheld thy blue eye shine
  Through the bright drop that Pity drew,
I saw beneath those tears of thine
  A blue-eyed violet bathed in dew.

The violet ever scents the gale,
  Its hues adorn the fairest wreath;
But sweetest through a dewy veil
  Its colours glow, its odours breathe.

And thus thy charms in brightness rise:
  When Wit and Pleasure round thee play;
When Mirth sits smiling in thine eyes,
  Who but admires their sprightly ray?
But when through Pity's flood they gleam,
  Who but must love their softened beam?