'TIS Meditation that delights to dwell
In deep seclusion; silently to roam,
Oft list'ning thoughtful to the distant knell,
Which tolls some mortal to his narrow home.

Where rocks with sable brows o'erhang the main,
And foaming surges lave the slimy shore,
Where echo screams the lengthen'd sound again,
Where o'er the heath the winds unfetter'd roar.

Or oft, when eve her twilight stillness spreads,
She loves to wander in the lonely glade,
Where no rough wight, with feet unhallow'd, treads,
To break the chain by Meditation made.

Where yawns the precipice of depth unseen,
Where frowns some mountain's elevated brow,
Or where the moon shines o'er the haunted green,
From vulgar fear deserted long ago.