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I would I were a careless child
����By George Gordon Byron
����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.
����Fortune! Take back these cultured 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.
����Few are my years, and yet I feel
����The world was ne'er designed 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?
����I loved - but those I loved 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 awile the sense of ill;
����Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
����The heart - the heart - is lonely still.
����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 that festive hour.
����Give me again the faithful few,
����In years and feelings still the same,
����And I will fly the midnight crew,
����Where boist'rous joy is but a name.
����And woman, lovely woman! thou,
����My hope, my comfortet, 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.
����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 I would cleave the vault of heaven,
����To flee away, and be at rest.
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