And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ...
This is to be alone--this, this is solitude.
His preference for wild scenery shews here:
Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,
Though always changing, in her aspect mild;
From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child.
O she is fairest in her features wild,
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path;