Pity. Poem by Susan Evance

SOFT as the dews of weeping Night
Fall on the bosom of the Rose,
Soft as the summer zephyr's flight,
When sighing thro' the leaves it blows; -

Soft as the moon-beam, mildly pale,
That glimmers in the lucid stream,
And o'er the dim and misty vale
Sheds faintly an uncertain gleam; -

So soft, meek Pity's falling tear;
So soft her gently stealing sigh-
Heav'd from the breast of Friendship dear,
And trembling in Affection's eye.