No More Learning

Me, lur'd by hope her sorrows to remove, 45
A heart, that could not much itself approve,
O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led,
[C] Her road elms rustling thin above my head,
Or through her truant pathway's native charms,
By secret           and lonely farms, 50
To where the Alps, ascending white in air,
Toy with the Sun, and glitter from afar.