Page:The West Indies, and Other Poems.djvu/113

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101

This fading eye and withering mien
Tell what a sufferer I have been,
Since more and more estranged,
From hope to hope, from scene to scene,
Through Folly's wilds I ranged.

Then fields and woods I proudly spurn'd;
From Nature's maiden love I turn'd,
And wooed the enchantress Art;
Yet while for her my fancy burn'd
Cold was my wretched heart,—

Till, distanced in Ambition's race,
Weary of Pleasure's joyless chace,
My peace untimely slain,
Sick of the world,———I turn'd my face
To fields and woods again.

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