Yet he, to whom each danger hath become A dark delight, and every wild a home, Still urges onward--undismay’d to tread Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread. But fear is’ for the happy--_they_ may shrink From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink; They to whom earth is paradise--their doom Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb: Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe, Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102] Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw Eternal shadows o’er the glen below; And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, He holds his venturous track:--supported now By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough; Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell. Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head, A level span, with emerald verdure spread, A fairy circle--there the heath-flowers rise, And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies; And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side: But all is wild beyond--and Hamet’s eye Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity. That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray; Around, untrodden woods; and far above, Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove, Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103] And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, That seems a part of heaven’s eternity. There is no track of man where Hamet stands, Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands; Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard Of distant voices, and the gathering-word Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown, Now but the lingering echo of a tone.