Charlotte Smith (1749–1806)

QUEEN of the silver bow! — by thy pale beam,

    Alone and pensive, I delight to stray,

And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,

    Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.

And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light

    Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;

And oft I think — fair planet of the night —

    That in thy orb, the wretched may have rest:

The suff’rers of the earth perhaps may go,

    Releas’d by Death — to thy benignant sphere,

And the sad children of Despair and Woe

    Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.

Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,

Poor wearied pilgrim — in this toiling scene!