(Childe Harold, Canto ii. Stanzas 25, 26.)

T O 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. 5 With the wild flock that never needs a fold: Alone oer steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude; tis but to hold Converse with Natures charms, and view her stores unrolld But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 10 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the worlds tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 15 If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flatterd, followd, sought, and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude.