I call no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns:
" Friend of my life!" my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The Gift still dearer, as the Giver You. —

Thou Orb of Day! Thou Other Paler Light!
And all ye many-sparkling Stars of Night!
If aught that Giver from my mind efface;
If I that Giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll, to me, along your wandering spheres,
Only to number out a Villain's Years!

I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
And grateful would — but cannot speak the rest. —