TO THE YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY **.

By Samuel Rogers

Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal

What most her blushes would conceal?

Why lift that modest veil to trace

The seraph-sweetness of her face?

Some fairer, better sport prefer;

And feel for us, if not for her.

For this presumption, soon or late,

Know thine shall be a kindred fate.

Another shall in vengeance rise —

Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes;

And, echoing back her wood-notes wild,

— Trace all the mother in the child!