Helen Maria Williams

No riches from his scanty store My lover could impart He gave a boon I valued more— He gave me all his heart !

Pale moon ! thy mild benignant light May glad some other's captive sight Where are the years with pleasure gay How bright their course ! How short their stay !

Expression, child of soul! I fondly trace Thy strong enchantment, when the poet's lyre, The painter's pencil cathch thy sacred fire, And beauty wakes for thee her touching grace