I have been forced to try to compose my angry passions at my
harpsichord; having first shut close my doors and windows, that I might
not be heard below. As I was closing the shutters of the windows, the
distant whooting of the bird of Minerva, as from the often-visited
woodhouse, gave the subject in that charming Ode to Wisdom, which does
honour to our sex, as it was written by one of it. I made an essay, a
week ago, to set the three last stanzas of it, as not unsuitable to my
unhappy situation; and after I had re-perused the Ode, those were
my lesson; and, I am sure, in the solemn address they contain to the
All-Wise and All-powerful Deity, my heart went with my fingers.
I enclose the Ode, and my effort with it. The subject is solemn; my
circumstances are affecting; and I flatter myself, that I have not been
quite unhappy in the performance. If it obtain your approbation, I shall
be out of doubt, and should be still more assured, could I hear it tried
by your voice and finger.