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.