(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Sing on, sweetest songster the woodland can boast;
Sing on, for it charms, tho' it sorrows my breast;
The strains, tho' so mournful, shall never be lost,
Till this throbbing bosom has murmur'd to rest.

The sweet Flower of the Forest on memory's page
Shall bloom undecaying while life lingers near,
Unhurt by the storms which around it shall rage,
By sorrow's sigh farm'd, and bedew'd by a tear.