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 sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,

Released by death, to thy benignant sphere,

And the sad children of despair and woe

Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here,

O that I soon may reach thy world serene,

Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!