Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/232

192 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below;

Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,

And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew,

No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

2.

Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,—

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?

But, still, I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: