| |
| ’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 me 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.
Lord Byron,
AT MISSOLONGHI, January 22, 1824. | |
