O! form'd t' illume a sunless world forlorn, As o'er the chill and dusky brow of Night, In Finland's wintry skies, the Mimic Morn Electric pours a stream of rosy light, Pleas'd I have mark'd OPPRESSION, terror-pale, Since, thro' the windings of her dark machine, Thy steady eye has shot its glances keen— And bade th' All-lovely "scenes at distance hail." Now will I not thy holy guidelines bless, And hymn thee, GODWIN! with an ardent Lay; For that thy voice, in Passion's stormy day, When wild I roam'd the bleak Health of Distress, Bade the bright form of JUSTICE meet my way— And told me, that her name was HAPPINESS. S. T. C.
