 | Born: January 22, 1788 // Died: April 19, 1824
 English poet (George Gordon), was born in London at 16 Holles Street, Cavendish Square, on the 22nd of January 1788. Romantic poet and satirist, who also was famous in his lifetime for his love affairs, and who created the concept of the 'Byronic hero' - a defiant, melancholy young man, brooding on some mysterious, unforgivable in his past. Byron's influence on European poetry, music, novel, opera, and painting has been immense, although the poet was widely condemned on moral grounds by his contemporaries. He published his first book of poetry, in 1807, at the age of nineteen, as "Hours of Idleness." It was mercilessly criticized in the Edinburgh Review, and in 1809, at age twenty one, Byron took revenge by publishing "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers", a scathing satire on the currently popular poets and critics. This made his name as a poet.
In March 1812 the long poem he had begun in Greece was released, renamed "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage". He said "I woke up one day and found myself famous". Byron's life, as well as his work, was in constant turmoil. From his scandalous affairs and troubled marriage, to his involvement with the Greek rebellion which led to his untimely death, he was a man consumed by passion.
While in Greece, he succumbed to a terrible fever. His doctors wanted to bleed him, which Byron resisted, saying "If bleeding were efficacious there would be a lot of healthy people on a battle field." Ultimately he became too weak to argue. They bled him for two days and were pleased when his veins ran clear. One of his last lucid remarks, to his valet, was : "My doctors have assassinated me". They may very well have done so. As the embodiment of Romantic rebellion many powerful people wanted Byron dead, the crowned heads of Europe, the Sultan of Turkey and the Pope. On Easter Sunday, 1824, at the age of thirty six, Byron died, during a suitably ferocious thunder storm.
"But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear."
He did not get this wish. He was surrounded to the last by a babel of weeping servants, helpless body guards and horrified supplicants. He was immediately autopsied and the doctors found what they were looking for the brain lesions that they believed resulted from his sexual promiscuity. This provided the evidence they needed for the necessity of having bled him which probably killed him. Malaria attacks the red blood cells. His lungs were left in Greece, but contrary to his wishes, the rest of him was pickled in spirits and shipped back to England. Westminster Abbey refused to conduct his funeral because he was an unrepentant sinner. Finally, a long cortege followed his funeral carriage north to his internment next to his mother among generations of Byrons.
Byron was born with a club-foot. He was extreme sensitivity about his lameness - in his works short and stout Byron glorified proud and arrogant heroes, who bear one's misfortunes bravely and overcome hardships.
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So We'll Go No More a Roving
So we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
by Lord Byron
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
by Lord Byron
And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.
by Lord Byron
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Source:
George Gordon, lord Byron, Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, ed. Thomas Moore (London: J. Murray, 1830). E-10 2736 Fisher Rare Book Library (Toronto).
Byron, Works, 17 vols. (London: John Murray, 1832-33). PR 4351 M6 1832 ROBA.
George Gordon, lord Byron, Hebrew Melodies (London: J. Murray, 1815). B-10 3742 Fisher Rare Book Library (Toronto). First Publication Date: 1815.
Byron, Works, 17 vols. (London: John Murray, 1832-33). PR 4351 M6 1832 ROBA. First Publication Date: 1812.
Byron, Works, 17 vols. (London: John Murray, 1832-33). PR 4351 M6 1832 ROBA. Morning Chronicle (Oct. 29, 1824).
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