A lone unloving libertine was he;
For reft of health and hope’s delusive wiles,
And tossed in youth on passion’s stormy sea,
He stood a wreck ’mid its deserted isles,
Where vainly pleasure wooes and syren woman smiles.
2.
He was a merchant, ’till ennui’d with toil
Of counting house turned but to small account,
Sated of home, and Limehouse leaden soil,
Nee more to his dried heart a freshening fount