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.




IMPROMPTU LINES,

UPON ANACREON MOORE'S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED
SINGING TO MEN.


By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd,
Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child
Exclaim'd,--"'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing
Before a _he_-party to sit and to sing!"
"By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,"