sight to stars. He is right, for woman's eye enlivens, encourages, and solaces, when rugged anxieties surround man:—
Her eye discourses, I will answer it,
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks;
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres, till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?—
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp, her eye in heaven
Would thro' the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it was not night.
Byron says, the eye is made bright by sleep, and we may quote—
The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;
The courteous host, and all approving guest
Again to that accustomed couch must creep,
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep.
And man o'erlaboured with his being's strife,
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life.
There lie Love's feverish hope and Cunning's guile,
Hate's working brain, and lulled Ambition's wile.
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave,
And quenched existence couches in a grave.
What better name may slumber's bed become—
Night's sepulchre, the universal home,
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue sink supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline.
