SONG.

Nature's imperfect child, to whom

The world is wrapt in viewless gloom,

Can unresisted still impart

The fondest wishes of his heart.

And he, to whose impervious ear

The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,

Can bid his inmost soul appear

In clear, tho’ silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest,

Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove,—

To feel each joy and hope supprest

That flow from pure, but hidden, love.