To quench my bosom’s fire;
Though on my heart ’twould fall more blest
Than dews upon the desert’s breast.
I’ve sought thee midst the sons of men,
Through the wide city’s fanes;
I’ve sought thee by the lion’s den,
O’er pathless, boundless plains;
No step that mark’d the burning waste,
But mine its lonely course hath traced.
Thy name hath been a baleful spell,