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Yet, even now, lone ideas ſuppreſſing,
Which ever rife my poor boſom diſtreſſing;
Now, I'll ſuppoſe Fortune's favours carreſſing
Them, far in the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.
"No more, ſhall I climb, o'er the wind-beaten mountain,
Where mem'ry the track of my home ſtill can trace;
No more ſhall I drink from the pure glaſſy fountain,
Which oft has reflected content in my face;
Yet who can forſee the events of to-morrow,
Tho' now on my head lowers the chill blaſt of ſorrow,
Perhaps joy's bright ſunſhine may gladden my ſtory
Once more in the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.
"Yet now I exiſt to taſte life's bitter anguiſh,
