XXXVIII.

Puff’d with the pride that feeds on lonely thoughts, In seeking secure harbours, thou must fail Of all the aim which with such toil thou sought’st: Either thy lot be wretchedness, or hail The empty, fond creations of the brain, For the warm, glowing, living forms of flesh. I smile at danger, and such fears as reign, In some men’s brooding minds entangled mesh; I have a pleasant harbour, and a hope, For ever wooed by an ethereal breeze; Not Love but Friendship’s my ambitious scope, Ne’er shall such fantasies my bosom tease: Yet if I knew not Friendship, I would rest, Sad, not despairing, on Creation’s breast.