Chapter XLIX: On Leaving England

Once more upon the waters! Yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sail
Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.

I’ve taught me other tongues--and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find
A country with--aye, or without mankind;
Yet was I born where men are proud to be,--
Not without cause; and should I leave behind
The inviolate Island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My Spirit shall resume it--if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remembered in my line
With my land’s language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline,--
If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

My name from out the temple where the dead
Are honoured by the Nations--let it be--
And light the Laurels on a loftier head!
And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me--
‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need--
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree
I planted,--they have torn me,--and I bleed:
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

_Byron._