Today’s Poem: January 22nd, Missolonghi
The Spartan borne upon his shield / Was not more free
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January 22nd, Missolonghi
On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year
by Lord Byron
’Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of Love are gone; The worm — the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some Volcanic Isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of Love I cannot share, But wear the chain. But ’tis not thus — and ’tis not here Such thoughts should shake my Soul, nor now, Where Glory decks the hero’s bier, Or binds his brow. The Sword, the Banner, and the Field, Glory and Greece around us see! The Spartan borne upon his shield Was not more free. Awake (not Greece — she is awake!) Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake And then strike home! Tread those reviving passions down Unworthy Manhood — unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret’st thy Youth, why live? The land of honourable Death Is here: — up to the Field, and give Away thy breath! Seek out — less often sought than found — A Soldier’s Grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy Ground, And take thy rest. ═════════════════════════
George Gordon, Lord Byron, born in 1788, died in Greece on April 19, 1824 — ill from the systematic abuse of his health in his frantic-paced life, a bad fever, and the misdoctoring of bloodletting. He was only 36, and he had found, for perhaps the first time, a consuming goal: his fight to free Greece from rule by the Ottoman Empire. Establishing himself at the western Greek town of Missolonghi, he spent his fortune and his last days struggling to bring unity to the rival Greek factions whose division slowed the revolution against the Turks.
On January 22, 1824, in acknowledgement of his birthday, he wrote one of his last works — Today’s Poem. “January 22nd, Missolonghi: On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year” is an interesting production. The poet pictures himself as old, still capable of desire but no longer a youthful object of others’ desire: “though I cannot be beloved, / Still let me love!” And the inspiration he declares, the fire and the drive that pulls him out of aging languor, is freedom for Greece: “Awake (not Greece — she is awake!) / Awake, my Spirit!”
Written in quatrains rhymed abab, the ten stanzas are formed by three four-beat lines followed by a sapphic-like shortened last line of two beats. And the poem ends with the poet’s calling himself to heroism and a hero’s death: “Seek out — less often sought than found — / A Soldier’s Grave . . . / Then look around, and choose thy Ground, / And take thy rest.”
Less than three months later, Byron was dead.
This poem made me sigh with every line… thank you for this post. Such a short lived life - like a cinder cone volcano. He will never be forgotten.
Last year, read a biography of Byron, A Life in Ten Letters. Without them the book would be like any other. They fill it with him, at the moment, which changes, as does he.
Despite the poem, he more than managed to be a beloved ere he died.