The Pilgrim

There stray’d awhile, amid the woods of Dart,
  One who could love them, but who durst not love.
A vow had bound him, ne’er to give his heart
  To streamlet bright, or soft secluded grove.
  ’Twas a hard humbling task, onwards to move
His easy-captured eyes from each fair spot,
  With unattach’d and lonely step to rove
O’er happy meads, which soon its print forgot:⁠—
Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim-lot.