"Discontented and uncheery, Of this noise and learning weary, Half my mind, to madness driven, Woos the lore by nature given; 'Mong fair fields and flowing fountains, Lonely glens and lofty mountains, Charm'd with nature's wildest grandeur, Lately wont was I to wander, Wheresoever fancy led me, Came no barrier to impede me; Still from early morn till even, In the light of earth and heaven, Musing on whatever graces, Livelier scenes or lonelier places, Till a nameless pleasure found me Living, like a dream, around me,-- How, then, may I be contented, Thus confined and thus tormented!
"'Still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather To be roaming through the heather; And where flow'd the stream so glassy, 'Mong its flowers and margins mossy, Where the flocks at noon their path on Came to feed by birk and hawthorn; Or upon the mountain lofty, Seated where the wind blew softly, With my faithful friend beside me, And my plaid from sun to hide me, And the volume oped before me, I would trace the minstrel's story, Or mine own wild harp awaken, 'Mid the deep green glens of braken, Free and fearlessly revealing All the soul of native feeling.
"''Stead of that eternal humming, To the ear for ever coming-- Humming of these thoughtless beings, In their restless pranks and pleaings; And the sore-provoked preceptor Roaring, "Silence!"--O'er each quarter Silence comes, as o'er the valley, Where all rioted so gaily, When the sudden bursting thunder Overpowers with awe and wonder-- Till again begins the fuss-- 'Master, Jock's aye nippin' us!' I could hear the fountains flowing, Where the light hill-breeze was blowing, And the wild-wing'd plover wailing, Round the brow of heaven sailing; Bleating flocks and skylarks singing, Echo still to echo ringing-- Sounds still, still so wont to waken That no note of them is taken, Yet which seem to lend assistance To the blessing of existence.
"'Who shall trow thee wise or witty, Lore of "the Eternal City," Or derive delight and pleasure From the blood-stain'd deeds of Cæsar, Thus bewildering his senses 'Mong these cases, moods, and tenses? Still the wrong-placed words arranging, Ever in their finals changing; Out and in with hic and hockings, Like a loom for working stockings. Latin lords and Grecian heroes-- Oh, ye gods, in mercy spare us! How may mortals be contented, Thus confined and thus tormented!'