Sonnet XXVIII.

Solo e pensoso i pi deserti campi.     HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE.         Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade     Measuring I roam with ling'ring steps and slow;     And still a watchful glance around me throw,     Anxious to shun the print of human tread:     No other means I find, no surer aid     From the world's prying eye to hide my woe:     So well my wild disorder'd gestures show,     And love lorn looks, the fire within me bred,     That well I deem each mountain, wood and plain,     And river knows, what I from man conceal,     What dreary hues my life's fond prospects dim.     Yet whate'er wild or savage paths I've ta'en,     Where'er I wander, love attends me still,     Soft whisp'ring to my soul, and I to him.     ANON., OX., 1795.         Alone, and pensive, near some desert shore,     Far from the haunts of men I love to stray,     And, cautiously, my distant path explore     Where never human footsteps mark'd the way.     Thus from the public gaze I strive to fly,     And to the winds alone my griefs impart;     While in my hollow cheek and haggard eye     Appears the fire that burns my inmost heart.     But ah, in vain to distant scenes I go;     No solitude my troubled thoughts allays.     Methinks e'en things inanimate must know     The flame that on my soul in secret preys;     Whilst Love, unconquer'd, with resistless sway     Still hovers round my path, still meets me on my way.     J.B. TAYLOR.         Alone and pensive, the deserted plain,     With tardy pace and sad, I wander by;     And mine eyes o'er it rove, intent to fly     Where distant shores no trace of man retain;     No help save this I find, some cave to gain     Where never may intrude man's curious eye,     Lest on my brow, a stranger long to joy,     He read the secret fire which makes my pain     For here, methinks, the mountain and the flood,     Valley and forest the strange temper know     Of my sad life conceal'd from others' sight--     Yet where, where shall I find so wild a wood,     A way so rough that there Love cannot go     Communing with me the long day and night?     MACGREGOR.