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!