O'ER desert plains, and rushy meres, And wither'd heaths, I rove; Where tree, nor spire, nor cot appears, I pass to meet my love. But tho' my path were damask'd o'er With beauties e'er so fine, My busy thoughts would fly before To fix alone -- on thine. No fir-crown'd hills could give delight, No palace please mine eye; No pyramid's aerial height, Where mould'ring monarchs lie. Unmov'd, should Eastern kings advance, Could I the pageant see: Splendour might catch one scornful glance, Nor steal one thought from thee. |