Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,
   Others along the safer turnpike fly;
   Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware,
   And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
   Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why? 
   ’Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,
   Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery,
   In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,
And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn.