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.