THE PURSUIT.
I've often thought, the world around
Might echo to our footsteps' sound,
While social scene, and desert drear,
Alike our vagrant track might bear,
And we might roll our searching eyes
Round native, and round foreign skies,
And still the soother Friendship find
A gay chimera of the mind;
A flame, blown up by Fancy's breath,
A flower, to deck the poet's wreath,
Might echo to our footsteps' sound,
While social scene, and desert drear,
Alike our vagrant track might bear,
And we might roll our searching eyes
Round native, and round foreign skies,
And still the soother Friendship find
A gay chimera of the mind;
A flame, blown up by Fancy's breath,
A flower, to deck the poet's wreath,
