BENEATH the trees, that with luxuriant shade And thus I travel to the final day, When freed from cares that make this heart their prey, Within the grave my mortal part shall rest, When first in leafy Wootton's lone retreat, Left each new labour, ere 't was well begun, Since torn, dear Native Spot, from thy embrace, Fate bade me in the worldling's paths to pace, Ere eighteen summers had matur'd a form, With every wild and youthful passion warm, In fields how wide, through what a varied scene Of pleasures, dangers, sufferings have I been! How little thought I, when for Granta's bowers I left thy falling leaves, and fading flowers, That ne'er again my hapless feet should roam Beneath thy shades, and claim them for my home. Ere yet a month from scenes so lovely torn, An honour'd parent to his grave was borne! Then, where the Hall with mirth and youth had rung, And Beauty laugh'd, and talk'd, and danc'd, and sung, The social circle ceas'd the day to cheer, Ambition spread before my dazzled eyes Oft as new ardours wak'd within my breast, Cross'd every step, and every chance supprest. O years, that long had turn'd this hair to white, Ere yet my thirtieth winter took its flight: Still, as ye urg'd your mournful course anew, More dire in dangers, or in griefs ye grew! In thickest shades I hid my tearful form; There, chill'd without, I strove my heart to warm: E'en there did Malice, and revengeful Ire, Pierce the retreat, and dash the hallowed fire. O never, never were there bowers so deep, To which calumnious Hatred could not creep! Long countless days I toil'd, and sigh'd and wept; Long nights in none but broken slumbers slept! But, hell-born Hatred, to thine iron heart No griefs will e'er a ray of pity dart. To break the bands of Friendship and of Love; But will no transient beams of Sun invade |