The poems of Lord Byron (b. 22 Jan 1788 - d. 19 April 1824) and his work was famous, however, he was a romantic British poet. He was a poet first before his political career. Son of handsome Captain John Byron and second wife Catherine Gordon (Heiress). However, It was Greece when Byron began writing Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. The Childe Harald's was a long form poem written by Byron.
Moreover, Byron loved travellings, he travelled across Europe and most of his poems reflects the culture of European in his writings. He was one of the poets whose poetry were widely read in his era and was well-known for his romantic rhythms. The most notable works are Don Juan, Childe Harold's and Hebrew Melodies.
But, the most popular is Childe Harold's Pilgrimage as it was such a long and beautiful book of the poem written by Byron into four parts. It also considered the powerful spice to European Romanticism. All The elements of the long form poem received through the experience of his travels, visiting The Mediterranean, Aegean Sea and Portugal during 1809 and 1811. The first and second part of the poem has too many details of Byron, biographical notes. As well as which made him famous by his exceptional poetic writings.
The Great Art Of Life Is Sensation, To Feel That We Exist, Even In Pain.
Lord Byron
Byron Wrote: “I woke one morning and found myself famous.” The poem was dedicated to Charlotte Harley. The poet used the nickname “Lanthe”. Charlotte was the second daughter of Lady Oxford who was a lover of Lord Byron.
Poems From Childe Harold Pilgrimage by Lord Byron
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,
Whose spirit antithetically mixt
One moment of the mightiest, and again
On little objects with like firmness fixt,
Extreme in all things! Hadst thou been betwixt,
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien,
And shake again the world, the Thunder Er of the scene!
Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert
A god unto thyself; nor less the same
To the astounded kingdoms all inert,
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert.
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Oh, more or less than man -- in high or low,
Battling with nations, flying from the field;
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:
An empire thou couldn't crush, command, rebuild,
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,
However, deeply in men's spirits skill'd,
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.
Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide
With that untaught innate philosophy,
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled
With a sedate and all-enduring eye; --
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child,
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled.
Sager than in thy fortunes: for in them
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show
That just habitual scorn, which could contemn
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow;
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose;
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.
If, like a tower upon a headlong rock,
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock;
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,
Their admiration thy best weapon shone;
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire
And motion of the soul which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all whoever bore.
This makes the madmen who have made men mad
By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings,
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs,
And are themselves the fools to those they fool;
Envied, yet how unenviable! What stings
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school
Which would un-teach mankind the lust to shine or rule:
Their breath is agitation, and their life
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,
That should their days, surviving perils past,
Melt to calm twilight, they feel an overcast
With sorrow and supineness, and so die;
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.
He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.
