Sonnet IV

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 lightSheds 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 WoeForget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here.Oh! that I soon may reach thy world serene,Poor wearied pilgrim——in this toiling scene!