Either thy lot be wretchedness, or hail

The empty, fond creations of the brain,

For the warm, glowing, living forms of flesh.

I smile at danger, and such fears as reign,

In some men’s brooding minds entangled mesh;

I have a pleasant harbour, and a hope,

For ever wooed by an ethereal breeze;

Not Love but Friendship’s my ambitious scope,

Ne’er shall such fantasies my bosom tease:

Yet if I knew not Friendship, I would rest,

Sad, not despairing, on Creation’s breast.

{39}

{39}

XXXIX.

Theme of my thought, and beacon to my verse,

Too long thy words have stolen me from thy praise;

Yet now I’ll linger round thee, and rehearse

All that thou wast in past delightful days:

As one, a boy, who leaves his home, his friends,

And thinks he knows them well, sudden discerns

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