(Written in her fifteenth year.)

Headache! thou bane to Pleasure's fairy spell,
Thou fiend, thou foe to joy, I know thee well!
Beneath thy lash I've writhed for many an hour, —
I hate thee, for I've known, and dread thy power.

Even the heathen gods were made to feel
The aching torments which thy hand can deal;
And Jove, the ideal king of heaven and earth,
Owned thy dread power, which called stern Wisdom forth.

Would'st thou thus ever bless each aching head,
And bid Minerva make the brain her bed,
Blessings might then be taught to rise from woe,
And Wisdom spring from every throbbing brow.

But always the reverse to me, unkind,
Folly for ever dogs thee close behind;
And from this burning brow, her cap and bell,
For ever jingle Wisdom's funeral knell.