To The Youngest Daughter Of Lady **.

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!