She turn'd around -
The flying breezes loosen'd to the air
Her ill-beseeming vests, her scatter'd hair:
So sad she look'd, so artless was her woe,
As from a thinking mind had drawn a tear;
But joy through every vein had stole,
And mirth shut out the sympathetic glow.
The heart's gay dance admits of no controul,
Sweet joys but seldom through our senses steal;
Tis pity then we should forget to feel.