Poem by George Gordon Byron

* * *

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 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—
⁠⁠       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.

1. Epitaph
2. Churchill’s Grave
3. On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School
4. Lines Addressed to a Young Lady
5. To the Earl of Clare

Print

12557 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version