Mocking thy bleak and solitary pride
With warm and flowery scenes, and soft wings gleaming,
Bright fountains laughing on the mountain’s side,
’Neath bow’rs of blossom’d vines, profusely streaming.
And sigh’st thou o’er those visions of delight,
As my lone bosom o’er the glowing treasures
Which live in fancy’s realm before my sight,
Mocking my spirit with ideal pleasures?
Or art thou holding converse with the wind,
Waving majestic assent to some story