Happy Birthday, George!

Mad, bad, and dangerous to know... George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born today in Aberdeen, Scotland, in 1788. Lame and bisexual, he had a miserable childhood, and left Britain as a young man to travel the eastern Mediterranean. He wrote a long poem about that trip, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, and it made him an overnight success... success which he handled badly. Eventually his scandalous life made it dangerous for him to remain in Britain, and he fled to Italy, where he died at 36, still working on his final poem, Don Juan (which, in true English fashion, is pronounced Don Joo-an - as we see from the very first stanza, where it rhymes with "true one" and "new one".)

SO, we'll go no more a-roving 
So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 
And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath,   
And the soul wears out the breast, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving, 
And the day returns too soon, 
Yet we'll go no more a-roving 
By the light of the moon.



Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!
    In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me to the rocks, where the snowflake reposes,
    Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
    Round their white summits though elements war;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
    I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah!  there my young footsteps in infancy wandered;
    My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains long perished my memory pondered,
    As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade;
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
    Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheered by traditional story,
    Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

"Shades of the dead!  have I not heard your voices
    Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
    And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.
Rough Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
    Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
    They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding
    Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
Ah!  were you destined to die at Culloden,
    Victory crowned not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,
    You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
    Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
    Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
    Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England!  thy beauties are tame and domestic
    To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
    The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.