Whose rays have found in James and thee,
The melting charm of misery.
That charm much more the cherub moves,
Than did his gift of cooing doves;
Whose hearts, less tender than her own,
Breathe forth their ever pleasing moan.
Sweet innocence, in her we find;
Bright truth illuminates her mind:
Each action says, for her to give
It is more joy than to receive.