Song.

Song.

DOES Pity give, tho' Fate denies, And to my wounds her balm impart? O speak! with those expressive eyes; Let one low sigh escape thine heart.

The gazing croud shall never guess What anxious, watchful love can see; Nor know what those soft looks express, Nor dream that sigh is meant for me.

Ah! words are useless words are vain, Thy gen'rous sympathy to prove; And well, that sigh, those looks explain, That Clara mourns my hapless love.