New way of Johnny's grey-breeks (1)/A New Song

A NEW SONG.

HOW imperfect is expression,
some emotions to impart;
When we mean a soft confession,
and seek to hide the tender heart.
When our bosom’s all complying,
with delicious tumults swell,
And beat, what broken, faultering, dying,
language would, but cannot tell.

Deep confusion’s rosy terror,
quite expressive pains my cheek;
Ask no more, behold your error,
blushes eloquently speak.
What though silent is my anguish,
or breath’d only to the air,
Mark my eyes, and as they languish,
read what your's have written there.

O that you could once convince me,
once my soul’s strong feelings view,
Love has not more fond, believe me,
friendship nothing half so true;
From you, I am wild, despairing,
with you, speechless as I touch;
This is all that bear declaring,
And perhaps declares too much.

FINIS.