1
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon [1] pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
2.
Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
3.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The World was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!--wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
4.
I lov'd--but those I lov'd are gone;
Had friends--my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart--the heart--is lonely still.
5.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.
6.
And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
7.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men [2]--
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest. [3]
[Footnote 1: Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either
Lowland or English.]
[Footnote 2: Shyness was a family characteristic of the Byrons.
The poet continued in later years to have a horror of being
observed by unaccustomed eyes, and in the country would,
if possible, avoid meeting strangers on the road.]
[Footnote 3:
"And I said, O that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly
away, and be at rest."
(Psalm iv. 6.) This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful
anthem in our language.]
[Footnote i:
'Stanzas'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE
CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. [1] [i]
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,--
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,--
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die--
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor'd by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.
September 2, 1807.
[Footnote 1: On the death of his daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822,
Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, "where," he says, in a
letter to Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he
wrote, May 26, "a spot in the church'yard', near the footpath, on the
brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree
(bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours
and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect
a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the
'church'." No tablet was, however, erected, and Allegra sleeps in her
unmarked grave inside the church, a few feet to the right of the
entrance.]
[Footnote i:
'Lines written beneath an Elm
In the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill
September 2, 1807'.
['Poems O. and T.']]