IMPROMPTU.

You say you're glad I write — oh, say not so!

My fount of song, dear friend,‘ s a bitter well;

And when the numbers freely from it flow,

‘ Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well.

Castalia, fam'd of yore,— the spring divine,

Apollo's smile upon its current wears:

Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,

To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.