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'.
Nor will I not thy holy guidance 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 Heath of Distress,
Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way—
And told me that her name was Happiness.