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.