physical decline and, for a salutary change of scene
and climate, is sent on a diplomatic mission to
England. In canto 16, the last that Byron finished,
he is in the middle of an amorous adventure while
a guest at the medieval country mansion of an
English nobleman, Lord Henry Amundeville, and
his very beautiful wife.
1. Sacred to Bacchus, god of wine and revelry. 'Myrtle': sacred to Venus, goddess of love.
2. A laurel crown was awarded by the Greeks as a mark of high honor.
3. White or gray with age.
.
JANUAR Y 22ND . MISSOLONGH I / 73 5 January 22nd. Missolonghi On this day I complete my thirty sixth year 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! 5 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! 10The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some Volcanic Isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile! 15The 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 20Such 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! 25 Awake (not Greece?she is awake!) Awake, my Spirit! think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake And then strike home! 30Tread 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 35 Is here:?up to the Field, and give Away thy Breath! 40Seek 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! Jan.1824 1824
.
736 / GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
LETTERS'
To Thomas Moore1
[CHILDE HAROLD. A VENETIAN ADVENTURE]
Venice, January 28th, 1817 Your letter of the 8th is before me. The remedy for your plethora is simple?
abstinence. I was obliged to have recourse to the like some years ago, I mean in point of diet, and, with the exception of some convivial weeks and days, (it might be months, now and then), have kept to Pythagoras2 ever since. For all this, let me hear that you are better. You must not indulge in 'filthy beer,' nor in porter, nor eat suppers?the last are the devil to those who swallow dinner.
I am truly sorry to hear of your father's misfortune4?cruel at any time, but
doubly cruel in advanced life. However, you will, at least, have the satisfaction
of doing your part by him, and, depend upon it, it will not be in vain. Fortune,
to be sure, is a female, but not such a b * * as the rest (always excepting your
wife and my sister from such sweeping terms); for she generally has some
justice in the long run. I have no spite against her, though between her and
Nemesis I have had some sore gauntlets to run?but then I have done my best
to deserve no better. But to you, she is a good deal in arrear, and she will come
round?mind if she don't: you have the vigour of life, of independence, of
talent, spirit, and character all with you. What you can do for yourself, you
have done and will do; and surely there are some others in the world who
would not be sorry to be of use, if you would allow them to be useful, or at
least attempt it. I think of being in England in the spring. If there is a row, by the sceptre
of King Ludd,5 but I'll be one; and if there is none, and only a continuance of
'this meek, piping time of peace,'6 I will take a cottage a hundred yards to the
south of your abode, and become your neighbour; and we will compose such
canticles, and hold such dialogues, as shall be the terror of the Times (includ
ing the newspaper of that name), and the wonder, and honour, and praise, of
the Morning Chronicle and posterity. I rejoice to hear of your forthcoming in February7?though I tremble for
the 'magnificence,' which you attribute to the new Childe Harold.8 I am glad
you like it; it is a fine indistinct piece of poetical desolation, and my favourite.
I was half mad during the time of its composition, between metaphysics,
mountains, lakes, love unextinguishable, thoughts unutterable, and the night
