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, though 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.
Unmoved, should Eastern kings advance,
Could I the pageant see:
Splendour might catch one scornful glance,
Nor steal one thought from thee.