III.

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-gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream; While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky.