Spirit of plaintive Tenderness! refine
The breathings which to sound her Name aspire
Her's who of Inspiration's Fount divine
Most deeply quaff'd of BRITAIN'S female Choir!
On the pale willow drooping o'er her Tomb,
Still and unstrung suspended rests her lyre;
The Silence of the Grove its mournful doom,
For no inferior hand can brace its Wire.
Departed Poetess! the bitter Woe
Which nipp'd thy hopes in Youth's expanding bloom,
And ting'd thy soft effusions with its gloom,
Shall sweetly to succeeeding ages flow;
And Rapture oft shall cry — Who would refuse
To take thy sorrows could thy give thy Muse?