Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow by Lord Byron

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.

It's almost 6am as I begin this post, and I have, as is customary for those with no commitments to uphold, spent the early hours of the morning watching James Bond movies. Quite enjoyable really, I had no idea softcore pornography could involve so many fight scenes and acts of escaping. Teleshopping propaganda, currently espousing some fascistic expandable hose device, now runs unbidden across my peripheral vision. The natural denouement to such a morning is of course to post about a 19th century poem on the internet. 

This poem was written by Byron at the age of 19 which, being a familiar age, naturally invites some degree of comparison between him and me; I regret to say that the contrast does not portray me in any favourable terms. He really must have been insufferable at school. 'Yes, sir, the passage of Milton you gave us was strong but I have made several emendations which, I'm sure you'll grant, free the text from its deficiencies.' Perhaps he wouldn't be this loathsome but certainly he was not ashamed of his talents, and his ironically-titled Hours of Idleness, from which this poem is taken, includes many imitations of great ancient poets such as Catullus. And all of this before the close of adolescence - I, conversely, am fortunate if I remove myself from bed by 4 in the afternoon. 

All the typical Byronic motifs are here - lament, wistfulness, and a heavy acknowledgement of ageing, to name but a handful. What fascinates me is that by the age of 19 Byron had already set the mould with which his future poetry would be cast (perhaps before this, one might argue). We even have several Romantic, orgasmic outbursts such as 'oh!' and 'ah!' which I always find amusing. I hope he did not make such noises while writing the poem at Harrow. Always inadvisable around schools.

Right-o, I'll happily shut up now. I need to sleep and your eyes need a reprieve.