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I Would I Were a Careless Child

                    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 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 know, 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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