SONNETS, Written in the Highlands of Scotland, in the Year 1767, SONNET VI

I do not blame these rocks, and barren hills, This desart wilderness which round me lyes, Wild glens, where Nature rude hath fix'd her seat, Dark heaths, o'er which the screaming Eagle flies, While the fierce winds my tottering mansion beat; For savage Pain, the worst of human ills, Tho scenes of pure and exquisite delight Were round me cast, meadows, and fairy groves All that might captivate the wond'ring sight, Tho by soft streams should echo murmuring Doves, Tho warm Etesian gales should gently play, And Philomela tune her sweetest voice, Possessing whom, night envies not the day, Pain, savage Pain, forbids me to rejoice.