The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre: Source of all good! oh, teach my voice to sing Thee, from whom Nature’s genuine beauties spring; Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise.” O Author of the rich luxuriant year! Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear: Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep, And e’en hast limited the mighty deep. Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise! Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub’s note; To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. ’Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing Thee, God of mercy,--heaven’s immortal King! Yet to that happiness I’d fain aspire-- Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire: With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend. Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o’er my lyre, And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire!” And when to Thee my youth, my life, I’ve given, Raise me to join Eliza,[1] blest in Heaven. [1] A sister whom the author had lost. SHAKSPEARE. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. [One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old; and in later days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own--a seat amongst the branches of an old apple-tree--where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old, may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm.--_Memoir of Mrs Hemans by her Sister_, p. 6, 7.] I love to rove o’er history’s page, Recall the hero and the sage; Revive the actions of the dead, And memory of ages fled: Yet it yields me greater pleasure, To read the poet’s pleasing measure. Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired, The bosom’s energies are fired; We learn to shed the generous tear, O’er poor Ophelia’s sacred bier; To love the merry moonlit scene, With fairy elves in valleys green; Or, borne on fancy’s heavenly wings, To listen while sweet Ariel sings. How sweet the “native woodnotes wild” Of him, the Muse’s favourite child! Of him whose magic lays impart Each various feeling to the heart! TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE COUNTRY. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.