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The shade of discontent which on his brow
Had gathered,—"Ye have left my Cell,—but see
How Nature hems you in with friendly arms!
And by her help ye are my Prisoners still.
But which way shall I lead you?—how contrive,
In Spot so parsimoniously endowed,
That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap
Some recompence of knowledge or delight?"
So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed;
And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired Friend
Said—"Shall we take this pathway for our guide?—
Upwards it winds, as if, in summer heats,
Its line had first been fashioned by the flock
A place of refuge seeking at the root
Of yon black yew-tree; whose protruded boughs
Darken the silver bosom of the crag,
From which it draws its meagre sustenance.
There in commodious shelter may we rest.
Or let us trace this Streamlet to its source;
Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound,
And a few steps may bring us to the spot
Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs,
The mountain Infant to the sun comes forth,
