To Miss Glasse

Oh, never be improv'd by art!
Or change the music of the heart,
?For Skill's mechanic powers!
Be thine, with Nature's glowing cheek,
The soul that in the voice can speak,
?And charm the listening hours!
Let others make the hearer stare ,
With flights of grace that spurn the air ,
?That Nature cannot reach:
To thee may no such wreaths belong,—
But melody that loves the song,
?And gives the tune of speech.
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