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.