Rich in historic lore, the poet's lyre
Had not, though screen'd by time, forsaken hung,
She felt and studied with a kindred fire,
The lofty strain immortal Maro sung.
She knew—but why essay to trace her thought
Through its wide range, describe her blooming youth,
The heart whose feelings were so finely wrought,
Its meek ambition, and its love of truth?
All that parental-vanity desires,
All that the friend can muse upon and mourn,