Paced round the dungeon pillar, till his feet
Wore in the floor of rock this time-enduring mark
Of cruelty of men, in ages past and dark.
Glorious Childe Harold! How, in boyhood's age,
Longing I traced that wondrous pilgrimage.
Thine imperishable verse invests these mountains grand
With new glories. Can it be that here I stand
And gaze, as thou, upon the self-same things?
The glassy lake, "the eagle on the blast," who slowly wings
His flight to the gray peaks that lift their crests on high,