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
.