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.