Ah! think'st thou, Laura, then, that wealth
Should make me thus my youth, and health,
And freedom and repose resign? —
Ah, no! — I toil to gain by stealth
One look, one tender glance of thine.

Born where huge hills on hills are piled,
In Caledonia's distant wild,
Unbounded Liberty was mine:
But thou upon my hopes hast smiled,
And bade me be a slave of thine!

Amid these gloomy haunts of gain,
Of weary hours I not complain,
While Hope forbids me to repine,
And whispering tells me I obtain
Pity from that soft heart of thine.

Tho' far capricious Fortune flies,
Yet Love will bless the sacrifice,
And all his purer joys combine;
While I my little world comprise
In that fair form, and fairer soul of thine.