finds,
  When through the region he pursues at will
  His devious course.  A glimpse of such sweet life
  I saw when, from the melancholy walls 210
  Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed
  My daily walk along that wide champaign, [U]
  That, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west,
  And northwards, from beneath the mountainous verge
  Of the Hercynian forest, [V] Yet, hail to you 215
  Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales,
  Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic’s voice, [W]
  Powers of my native region!  Ye that seize
  The heart with firmer grasp!  Your snows and streams
  Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds, 220
  That howl so dismally for him who treads
  Companionless your awful solitudes! 
  There, ’tis the shepherd’s task the winter long
  To wait upon the storms:  of their approach
  Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives 225
  His flock, and thither from the homestead bears
  A toilsome burden up the craggy ways,
  And deals it out, their regular nourishment
  Strewn on the frozen snow.  And when the spring
  Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs, 230
  And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs
  Higher and higher, him his office leads
  To watch their goings, whatsoever track
  The wanderers choose.  For this he quits his home
  At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun 235
  Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat,
  Than he lies down upon some shining rock,
  And breakfasts with his dog.  When they have stolen,
  As is their wont, a pittance from strict time,
  For rest not needed or exchange of love, 240
  Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet
  Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers
  Of lowly thyme, by Nature’s skill enwrought
  In the wild turf:  the lingering dews of morn
  Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies, 245
  His staff protending like a hunter’s spear,
  Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag,
  And o’er the brawling beds of unbridged streams. 
  Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy’s call,
  Might deign to follow him through what he does 250
  Or sees in his day’s march; himself he feels,
  In those vast regions where his service lies,
  A freeman, wedded to his life of hope
  And hazard, and hard labour interchanged
  With that majestic indolence so dear 255
  To native man.  A rambling school-boy, thus
  I felt his presence in his own domain,
  As of a lord and master, or a power,
  Or genius, under Nature, under God,
  Presiding; and severest solitude 260
  Had more commanding looks when he was