Note 8 — PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814
Reading edition
Across a bare wide common I was toiling When oft each footstep by the slippery turf Was baffled: nor could my arm disperse The host of insects gathered round my face, And ever with me as I paced along. Now with eyes turned towards the far-distant hills, Now towards a grove that from the wide-spread moor C. Rose up! the port to which my course was bound.