LORD BYRON 1788-1824 GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, the descendant of a noble family dating from the Norman Conquest, was born in London, Jan. 22, 1788. His father was a reckless libertine, his mother a passionate and foolish heiress. Her fortune was soon squandered by her husband, who then left her to bring up their son in poverty. At the age of ten the boy inherited from a grand-uncle the title of Lord Byron and the estate of Newstead Abbey. At seventeen years of age Byron entered Trinity College, Cambridge. Here he distinguished himself by his fondness for athletics, swimming, riding, fencing, and boxing. He cared little for his studies, though he read very widely. His first volume of poems, Hours of Idleness, was published while he was still an undergraduate. It was harshly criticised by the Edinburgh Review, and Byron answered the attack in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, a poem which first displayed his genius for satire. Shortly afterwards, in 1809, he left England on a long tour through the south and east of Europe. He visited Portugal, Spain, Sardinia, Sicily, and Malta, traveled through the savage highlands of Albania to Athens, and sailed through the Ægean to Constantinople. In 1811 he returned to England, bringing with him the materials for the first two cantos of Childe Harold, which appeared in the following year. This poem made him famous. During the next few years he wrote a number of romantic poems, the scenes of which are laid in Greece or Turkey. Such are The Giaour, The Corsair, Lara, and The Siege of Corinth. In 1815 he married Miss Milbank, but a year later, shortly after the birth of their daughter, she deserted him. The cause of her action has never been known; she pretended that her life had been in danger from his violence and hinted that some horrible crime separated them forever. Such an outcry arose that Byron felt obliged to leave England, and early in 1816 he took final leave of his country. The first years of his voluntary exile were spent in wild dissipation, but he was finally rescued from his licentious life by an attachment for a beautiful Venetian lady, and through her influence enrolled himself among the Italians who were endeavoring to shake off the Austrian yoke. In 1823 he joined the Greeks in their struggle for independence and looked forward to playing the part of liberator of the country he loved; but he was attacked by fever and died at Missolonghi on the 19th of April, 1824. Byron's character was a curious mixture of base and noble elements. He was proud, self-willed, and overbearing. At the same time he was generous, brave, and loving. He abandoned himself more than once to degrading passions, but was strong enough to shake them off, and we must not forget that he left a life of ease in Italy to die for the cause of freedom. In his work, as in his character, good and bad are strangely mingled. He wrote hastily and carelessly, and seldom revised his poems, and as a consequence they are full of faults. On the other hand, he is, at his best, one of the strongest, sincerest, and most impressive of English poets. SONNET ON CHILLON ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind! To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, And thy sad floor an altar - for 't was trod, 5 10 Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON I My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, To whom the goodly earth and air I suffered chains and courted death; That father perished at the stake Six in youth, and one in age, Proud of Persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed, Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied; 5 ΤΟ 15 20 25 Of whom this wreck is left the last. II gray, There are seven pillars of Gothic mold, And in each ring there is a chain; For in these limbs its teeth remain, I cannot count them o'er, 30 35 40 45 When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side. III They chained us each to a column stone, And we were three-yet, each alone; We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face, 50 But with that pale and livid light Fettered in hand, but joined in heart, 'T was still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, 55 To hearken to each other's speech, . But even these at length grew cold. A grating sound, not full and free, IV I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do and did my best And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven For him my soul was sorely moved; And truly might it be distressed Its sleepless summer of long light, And thus he was as pure and bright, With tears for naught but others' ills, 60 65 70 75 80 85 |