Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/248

208 My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.

Oh! that to me the wings were given,

Which bear the turtle to her nest!

Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,

To flee away, and be at rest.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW

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;