Nor did my heart foretell I should be doomed To consummate my youthful years in this My native hamlet rude; amid a race Ribaldrous, vile; to which are names most strange, And often themes of mockery and jibes, Learning and science; and it hates and shuns me, Not out of envy, for it does not deem My worth superior, but because it knows That in my heart I think so, though thereof An outward sign to none I ever gave. Here do I pass my years, abandoned, hidden, And without love or life; and needs amid A rabble so malignant, bitter grow; Here I discard all pity and all virtue, And a despiser of mankind become, Because of those around me; and, meanwhile, The cherished time of youth escapes, more dear Than fame or laurels, dearer than the pure Radiance of day and vital breath; I lose thee Without a joy, and uselessly, in this Inhuman dwelling-place, immersed in woes, Of barren life thou solitary flower!
I hear the wind that wafts the striking time From yonder village-clock. I well remember That sound was the sole comfort to my nights, When as a child, in darkness of my room, I passed a sleepless vigil, full of terrors, Sighing for day. Around me there is nothing I see or hear, whence fancies old do not Return, or sweet remembrances arise, Sweet in themselves; but full of pain appears The present to my mind, the vain desire For what is past, though sad, the thought "I was!" Yon loggia, turned towards the dying light Of the expiring day; these pictured walls, Those herds that live in painting, and the sun O'er lonely country rising, to my leisure Gave many joys, what time my mighty error Beside me stood, wherever I might be, Prompting my heart. Here in these ancient halls, When shone the snow without, and stormy blasts Were whistling round these ample windows high, My pleasures had their scene, and my gay laugh Re-echoed in that time when we suppose The bitter, cruel mystery of things Entirely sweet; an inexperienced lover, Admiring heavenly beauty he conceives, The youth pays court unto his life which yet Before him lies untasted, unconsumed.
Ye hopes, ye vanished hopes, ye sweet illusions Of my beginning years! always in song To you I come; and although time doth fly, And thoughts do change, and even affections vary, Forget you, I shall never. Shades, I know, Are glory and honour, riches and delight, Merest desire; life doth not yield a fruit, Tis useless misery. And although empty Are these my years, and desolate and dark My lot on earth, I see that fortune keeps Little from me. Alas! but when my thoughts Recur to you, oh ye my ancient hopes! And to my fond imagining of yore, And then consider my existence, made So painful and so vile that death is all That of such high aspiring still is mine: I feel my heart contract, I feel that wholly There is no consolation for my fate. And when at last this long implored for death Shall come to me, and thus the end be reached Of all my woes; when to my soul this earth Shall be a vale remote; and from my sight The future shall escape: of ye in truth I will be mindful, and even then your image Will make me sigh, will make the thought most bitter That I have lived in vain, and even the sweetness Of dying it will temper with affliction.