(Written in her fourteenth year.)

WHY, gentle Muse, wilt thou disdain
To lend thy strains to me?
Why do I supplicate in vain
And bow my heart to thee?

Oh! teach me how to touch the lyre,
To tune the trembling chord;
Teach me to fill each heart with fire,
And melting strains afford.

Sweep but thy hand across the string,
The woodlands echo round,
And mortals wond'ring, as you sing,
Delighted catch each sound.

Enchanted when thy voice I hear,
I drop each earthly care;
I feel as wafted from the world
To Fancy's realms of air.

Then as I wander, plaintive sing,
And teach me every strain;
Teach me to touch the trembling string
Which now I strike in vain.