Impromptu

On Seeing a Tear on the Cheek of a Young Lady at the Recital of a Tale of Woe

Written at Fourteen.

Precious drop of heav’nly feeling,
Purer than the driven snows,
Down the cheek of beauty stealing,
At the tale of Mira’s woes.

Is that beamy radiance melting?
Does that eye less bright appear?
Love in Pity’s bosom sheltering,
Wafts his arrows on a tear!