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,

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.