Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, To mark the spot where earth to earth returns! No lengthen’d scroll, no praise-encumber’d stone; My epita… - Lord Byron

Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate’er my soul enjoy’d,
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy’d.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
The corn is cut, the manor full of game;
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats
In russet jacket; — lynx-like is his aim;
Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.
Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers! — 'Tis no sport for peasants.

The thorns which I have reap'd 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.