To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene, 
Where things, that own not man’s dominion, dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne’er, or rarely been; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock, that never needs a fold. 
Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean; 
This is not solitude, ’t is but to hold 
Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unroll’d. 
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE. 
