Expression, child of soul! I fondly trace Thy strong enchantments, when the poet's lyre, The painter's pencil catch thy sacred fire, And beauty wakes for thee her touching grace— But from this frighted glance thy form avert When horrors check thy tear, thy struggling sigh, When frenzy rolls in thy impassioned eye, Or guilt sits heavy on thy labouring heart— Nor ever let my shuddering fancy bear The wasting groan, or view the pallid look Of him the Muses loved—when hope forsook His spirit, vainly to the Muses dear! For charmed with heavenly song, this bleeding breast, Mourns the blest power of verse could give despair no rest—
Helen Maria Williams 1761-1827