Is there a solitary wretch who hies br To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow, br And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes br Its distance from the waves that chide below; br Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs br Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf, br With hoarse, half-utter'd lamentation, lies br Murmuring responses to the dashing surf? br In moody sadness, on the giddy brink, br I see him more with envy than with fear; br He has no nice felicities that shrink br From giant horrors; wildly wandering here, br He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know br The depth or the duration of his woe.