Song, 1744

O'er desert plains; and rushy meers, 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 aërial height, Where mould'ring monarchs lie.

Unmov'd, should Eastern kings advance, Could I the pageant see? Splendour might catch one scornful glance, Not steal one thought from thee.