Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   O’er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,
   (Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!)
   Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills,
   Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. 
   Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
   And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
   The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. 
   Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.