I would I were a careless child

I would I were a careless child

by George Gordon Byron

1

　　I would I were a careless child,

　　still dwelling in my Highland cave,

　　or roaming through the dusky wild,

　　or bounding over 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.

2

　　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 has known before.

　　Few are my years, and yet I feel

　　the world was never designed for me.

　　Ah! Why do darkening shades conceal

　　the hour when man must cease to be?

　　Once I beheld a splendid dream,

　　a visionary scene of bliss.

3

　　Truth! Wherefore did the 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 gain companions over 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 that festive hour

　　Give me again the faithful few,

　　in years and feelings still the same.

　　And I will fly the midnight crew,

　　where boisterous joy is but a name.

4

　　And woman, lovely woman! You,

　　my hope, my comfort, my all!

　　How cold must be my bosom now,

　　when even the 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 darkened mind.

　　Oh! That to me the wings were given

　　which bear the turtle to her nest!

　　Then I would cleave the vault of heaven,

　　to flee away, and be at rest.