Alas! how changed from bowers of Paradise
That desolate region, overgrown with thorn
And thistle rank—a trackless waste forlorn,
Unblessed by God, o'erarched by sullen skies,
There stand that guilty pair, now sadly wise,
Their hearts with grief, their feet with briers torn,
Vainly their faded innocence they mourn,
And toward the gates of Eden turn their eyes.
No more to see the beauty and the bloom
Of that blest garden was to sinners given;