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

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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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