If soon it finds for meads and flowers,
But arid wastes and tangled thorns,
And soon a loathing rage o’erpowers
The mad or mournful love it scorns?
Flung as a rapid comet wide,
On ardent fancy’s wings I flew,
Where’er my wayward mind espied
Or joys or triumphs to pursue.
I launch’d myself, in daring flight,
Beyond the world through heavenward space,