256 
How blest the Solitary’s lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 
Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o’er his newly-gathered fruits, 
Beside his crystal well! 
Or, haply, to his evening thought, 
By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream: 
While praising, and raising 
His thoughts to heaven on high, 
As wand’ring, meand’ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 
Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 
Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 
With self-respecting art: 
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys 
Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 
Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here. 
At perfidy ingrate! 
Burns. 
