Lines Written Beneath An Elm In The Churchyard Of Harrow.[1]

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.