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That bids me loathe my present state,

And fly from all I prized the most :

It is that weariness which springs

From all I meet, or hear, or see : To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb,

But cannot hope for rest before.

What Exile from himself can flee?

To zones though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be,

The blight of life—the demon Thought.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,

And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,

With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know,

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask

In pity from the search forbear : Smile on—nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. WOULD I were a careless child,

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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 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?

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 awhile 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 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.

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.

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.

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