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.
Today is Byron's 226th birthday, a fact I was regrettably made to realise whilst filling in the date in an exam. I felt it was so representative of my life as a whole - incessantly teased with hints towards my real interests whilst completing something economics coerces me into. It is strange that most people in this country would consider themselves free when asked - when one really considers the world, it becomes quite clear that the individual under capitalism spends his entire life depleted and tyrannised by the weight of false necessity. Once we accept this as freedom, we will gladly accept the negation of the personality at the hands of others, and I believe this accounts for the preponderance of dull people at large today. The fact that all activity must be committed first for others is unconscionably inimical to the human spirit.
I have a terrible habit of digressing wildly. The point is that this short poem is, in my opinion, one of the most challenging of Byron's (and also one of his last, if not his last). There is so much going on, and so many countervailing forces that it becomes difficult to discern his true feelings, and this is probably his intention. There is the conflict between youth and age, as must occur at an age such as 36, too old to really be a 'youth' but perhaps too young to really be a respectable adult. He writes of the death of passion and then, later, how adulthood impels him to 'Tread those reviving passions down'. Of course this is how encroaching adulthood feels - one is expected to be solemn and professional in today's world, and the word 'childish' is thoroughly derogatory in nature. There is with age a responsibility which is utterly baleful, and a burgeoning indifference to life's offerings, which Byron explained in a letter to Shelley: 'As I grow older, the indifference--not to life, for we love it by instinct--but to the stimuli of life, increases'. It is interesting to note that Byron died before he saw his 37th birthday, almost as if the emotional death of adulthood was a negation of his entire being, and that he was fated to embody the spirit of youth forevermore.
I cannot stay to chat, because I have another exam tomorrow, the content of which I am certain is relating to economics in some way, but I will use this evening to determine precisely this relationship. And thus we see freedom today - the freedom to be forced by that most vomitworthy thing, 'employment prospects', to do things one does not enjoy. Such is this distorted world.
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