That genuine merit seeks the shade;
Blushing to think what is her due,
As of her own sweet pow'rs afraid:--

Thus, lovely maid! on fluttering wings,
Thy pow'rs a thousand fears pursue,
Which, like thy own harmonious strings,
When press'd _enchant_, and _tremble_ too!

The pity, which we give, you owe,
For mutual fears on both attend;
While anxious thus you joy bestow,
We fear too soon that joy will end!




LINES

TO MISS L---- D----.


When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind,
With genius and with taste refin'd,
As if the union were too bright,
It spread the veil of diffidence,
That ev'ry ray, at first intense,
Might shine as soft as lunar light.

To frame a form then Nature strove,