And now, regretful of the joys his birth
Had promised; deserts, mounts and streams he crost,
To find, amid the loveliest spots of earth,
Faint likeness of the heaven he had lost.
And oft, by unsuccessful searching pained,
Weary he fainted thro' the toilsome hours;
And then his mystic nature he sustained
On steam of sacrifices--breath of flowers. (4)