Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow
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.
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