LXXXVII.

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, His home deserted for the lonely wood, Tormented with a wound he could not know, His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: I'm fond myself of solitude or so, But then, I beg it may be understood, By solitude I mean a Sultan's (not A Hermit's), with a haram for a grot.

LXXXVIII.

"Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this, Where Transport and Security entwine, Here is the Empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a God indeed divine."[53] The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, With the exception of the second line, For that same twining "Transport and Security" Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.