WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. [i]
1.
When I rov’d a young Highlander
o’er the dark heath,
And climb’d thy steep
summit, oh Morven of snow! [1]
To gaze on the torrent that thunder’d
beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest
that gather’d below; [2]
Untutor’d by science, a stranger
to fear,
And rude as the rocks, where
my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was
dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary,
[3] ’twas centred in you?
2.
Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not
the name,—
What passion can dwell in
the heart of a child?
But, still, I perceive an emotion the
same
As I felt, when a boy, on
the crag-cover’d wild:
One image, alone, on my bosom impress’d,
I lov’d my bleak regions,
nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were
bless’d,
And pure were my thoughts,
for my soul was with you.
3.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as
my guide,
From mountain to mountain
I bounded along;
I breasted [4] the billows of Dee’s
[5] rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the
Highlander’s song:
At eve, on my heath-cover’d couch
of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were
spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers
was a blessing on you.
4.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are
gone;
The mountains are vanish’d,
my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither
alone,
And delight but in days, I
have witness’d before:
Ah! splendour has rais’d, but embitter’d
my lot;
More dear were the scenes
which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail’d,
yet they are not
forgot,
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers
with you.
5.
When I see some dark hill point its crest
to the sky,
I think of the rocks that
o’ershadow Colbleen; [6]
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking
eye,
I think of those eyes that
endear’d the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I
behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary’s
in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of
gold,
The locks that were sacred
to beauty, and you.
6.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains
once more
Shall rise to my sight, in
their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang’d
as before,
Will Mary be there to receive
me?—ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood
was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to
thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my
head,—
Ah! Mary, what home could
be mine, but with you?
[Footnote 1: Morven, a lofty
mountain in Aberdeenshire. “Gormal of snow”
is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.]
[Footnote 2: This will not appear
extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to
the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on
attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc.,
to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds
pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by
lightning, while the spectator literally looks down
upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.]
[Footnote 3: Byron, in early
youth, was “unco’ wastefu’”
of Marys. There was his distant cousin, Mary
Duff (afterwards Mrs. Robert Cockburn), who lived
not far from the “Plain-Stanes” at Aberdeen.
Her “brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes—her
very dress,” were long years after “a
perfect image” in his memory (Life, p.
9). Secondly, there was the Mary of these stanzas,
“with long-flowing ringlets of gold,” the
“Highland Mary” of local tradition.
She was (writes the Rev. J. Michie, of The Manse,
Dinnet) the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse
of Ballatrich on Deeside, where Byron used to spend
his summer holidays (1796-98). She was of gentle
birth, and through her mother, the daughter of Captain
Macdonald of Rineton, traced her descent to the Lord
of the Isles. “She died at Aberdeen, March
2, 1867, aged eighty-five years.” A third
Mary (see “Lines to Mary,” etc., p.
32) flits through the early poems, evanescent but
unspiritual. Last of all, there was Mary Anne
Chaworth, of Annesley (see “A Fragment,”
etc., p. 210; “The Adieu,” st. 6,
p. 239, etc.), whose marriage, in 1805, “threw
him out again—alone on a wide, wide sea”
(Life, p. 85).]
[Footnote 4: “Breasting
the lofty surge” (Shakespeare).]
[Footnote 5: The Dee is a beautiful
river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into
the sea at New Aberdeen.]
[Footnote 6: Colbleen is a mountain
near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the
ruins of Dee Castle.]
[Footnote i:
Song.
[Poems O. and T.]]
TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. i
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have
stray’d, [ii]
Exploring every path of Ida’s glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful
band
Bade thee obey, and gave me
to command; [2]
Thee, on whose head a few short years
will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E’en now a name illustrious is thine
own,
Renown’d in rank, not far beneath
the throne. 10
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, [3] fearful to
dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath
may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the
knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,—
And even in simple boyhood’s opening
dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to
fawn,— 20
When these declare, “that pomp alone
should wait
On one by birth predestin’d to be
great;
That books were only meant for drudging
fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common
rules;”
Believe them not,—they point
the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Ida’s early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the
wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of
truth, 30
Ask thine own heart—’twill
bid thee, boy, forbear!
For well I know that virtue lingers
there.
Yes! I have mark’d thee many
a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark’d within that
generous mind
A soul, if well matur’d, to bless
mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty,
wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail’d her favourite
child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
40
Though my proud heart no precept, now,
can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
’Tis not enough, with other sons
of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page
beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common
lot—
In life just gaz’d at, in the grave
forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar
dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides
thy head, 50
The mouldering ’scutcheon, or the
Herald’s roll,
That well-emblazon’d but neglected
scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour’d, in the
tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnotic’d as the gloomy
vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and
their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o’erspread,
In records destin’d never to be
read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic
eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
60
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent
too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness
shun;
Not Fortune’s minion, but her noblest
son.
Turn to the annals of a former
day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires
display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of
worth,
And call’d, proud boast! the British
drama forth. [4]
Another view! not less renown’d
for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates
fit; 70
Bold in the field, and favour’d
by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain’d
to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering
throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of
Song. [5]
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their
name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days
will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship
all were mine: 80
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow’s
hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments
flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown’d
away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future
day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood
only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so
well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o’er
Scenes hail’d, as exiles hail their
native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue
deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot
weep. 90
Dorset, farewell! I will
not ask one part [iv]
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace
behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same
sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the
state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other
by
With faint regard, or cold and distant
eye. 100
For me, in future, neither friend nor
foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe—
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known
voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance,
it ought,
If these,—but let me cease
the lengthen’d strain,—
Oh! if these wishes are not breath’d
in vain, 110
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found
thee great.
1805.
[Footnote 1: In looking over
my papers to select a few additional poems for this
second edition, I found the above lines, which I had
totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805,
a short time previous to my departure from H[arrow].
They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high
rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles
through the neighbouring country: however, he
never saw the lines, and most probably never will.
As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than some
other pieces in the collection, I have now published
them, for the first time, after a slight revision.
[The foregoing note was prefixed to the poem in ‘Poems
O. and T’. George John Frederick, 4th Duke
of Dorset, born 1793, was killed by a fall from his
horse when hunting, in 1815, while on a visit to his
step-father the Earl of Whitworth, Lord-Lieutenant
of Ireland. (See Byron’s letter to Moore, Feb.
22, 1815).]]
[Footnote 2: At every public
school the junior boys are completely subservient
to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher
classes. From this state of probation, very properly,
no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they
command in turn those who succeed.]
[Footnote 3: Allow me to disclaim
any personal allusions, even the most distant.
I merely mention generally what is too often the weakness
of preceptors.]
[Footnote 4: “Thomas Sackville,
Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While a student
of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of ‘Gorboduc’,
which was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall,
in 1561. This tragedy, and his contribution of
the Induction and legend of the Duke of Buckingham
to the ‘Mirrour for Magistraytes’, compose
the poetical history of Sackville. The rest of
it was political. In 1604, he was created Earl
of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the council-table,
in consequence of a dropsy on the brain.”—’Specimens
of the British Poets’, by Thomas Campbell, London,
1819, ii. 134, ’sq’.]
[Footnote 5: Charles Sackville,
Earl of Dorset [1637-1706], esteemed the most accomplished
man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous
court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William
III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight
with the Dutch in 1665; on the day previous to which
he composed his celebrated song [”’To all you
Ladies now at Land’”]. His character has
been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope,
Prior, and Congreve. ‘Vide’ Anderson’s
’British Poets’, 1793, vi. 107, 108.]
[Footnote i:
‘To the Duke of D-----’.
[’Poems O. and T.’]]
[Footnote ii:
’D-r-t’-----.
[’Poems O. and T.’]]
[Footnote iii:
Yet D-r-t-----.
[’Poems O. and T.’]
[Footnote iv:
‘D—r—t farewell.’
[’Poems O. and T.’]]
TO THE EARL OF CLARE. [i]
Tu semper amoris
Sis memor, et cari comitis
ne abscedat imago.
VAL. FLAC. ‘Argonaut’,
iv. 36.
1.
Friend of my youth! when young we rov’d,
Like striplings, mutually belov’d,
With Friendship’s purest
glow;
The bliss, which wing’d those rosy
hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.
2.
The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I’ve known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, ’tis still a pleasing
pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!
3.
My pensive mem’ry lingers o’er,
Those scenes to be enjoy’d no more,
Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life’s evening dream is dark and
dull,
And we may meet—ah!
never!
4.
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
Together join’d in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the Main!
5.
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death’s unfathom’d gulph
appear,
And both shall quit the shore.
6.
Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
’Tis yours to mix in polish’d
courts,
And shine in Fashion’s
annals;
7.
’Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
Nor left a thought to seize
on.
8.
Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem’d it monstrous hard
That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral.
9.
And yet, while Beauty’s praise is
thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution’s arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
10.
Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who
write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
I really will not fight them.
11.
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden’d sinner.
12.
Now, Clare, I must return to you; [ii]
And, sure, apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy’s
flight [iii]
I soar along from left to right;
My Muse admires digression.
13.
I think I said ’twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;—
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
14.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may Saints preserve
you;
And grant your love or friendship ne’er
From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve
you!
15.
Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth’s secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O’er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!
16.
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you’ve been known to
me,—
Be still as you are now. [3]
17.
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I’d waive at once a Poet’s
fame,
To prove a Prophet
here.
1807.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were
written soon after the appearance of a severe critique
in a northern review, on a new publication of the
British Anacreon. (Byron refers to the article in the
’Edinburgh Review’, of July, 1807, on
“‘Epistles, Odes, and other Poems’,
by Thomas Little, Esq.”)]
[Footnote 2: A bard [Moore] (’Horresco
referens’) defied his reviewer [Jeffrey] to
mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent,
our Periodical Censors must be dipped in the river
Styx: for what else can secure them from the
numerous host of their enraged assailants? [Cf.
‘English Bards’, l. 466, ’note’.]]
[Footnote 3:
“Of all I have ever known, Clare
has always been the least altered in everything
from the excellent qualities and kind affections which
attached me to him so strongly at school. I
should hardly have thought it possible for society
(or the world, as it is called) to leave a being
with so little of the leaven of bad passions.
I do not speak from personal experience only, but
from all I have ever heard of him from others, during
absence and distance.”
‘Detached Thoughts’, Nov. 5, 1821; ‘Life’,
p. 540.]
[Footnote i:
‘To the Earl of-----’.
[’Poems O. and T.’]]
[Footnote ii:
‘Now——I must’.
[’Poems O. and T.’]]
[Footnote iii:
‘In truth dear——in
fancy’s flight’.
[’Poems O. and T.’]]
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. [i]
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.
[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
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.’]]
