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The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 4

Author: : Lord Byron

Genre: Literature

George Gordon Byron (Noel) or Lord Byron was an English poet and a leading figure in the Romantic movement. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, and the short lyric "She Walks in Beauty". Byron is regarded as one of the greatest British poets, and remains widely read and influential. He travelled extensively across Europe, especially in Italy where he lived for seven years. Later in life, Byron joined the Greek War of Independence fighting the Ottoman Empire, for which many Greeks revere him as a national hero. He died in 1824 at the young age of 36 from a fever contracted while in Missolonghi. Often described as the most flamboyant and notorious of the major Romantics, Byron was both celebrated and castigated in life for his aristocratic excesses, including huge debts, numerous love affairs – with men as well as women, as well as rumours of a scandalous liaison with his half-sister – and self-imposed exile. He also fathered Ada, Countess of Lovelace, whose work on Charles Babbage's Analytical Engine is considered a founding document in the field of computer science, and Allegra Byron, who died in childhood - as well as, possibly, Elizabeth Medora Leigh out of wedlock.

Chapter 1 No.1

My hair is grey, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night,[3]

As men's have grown from sudden fears:

My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose,[b]

For they have been a dungeon's spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those

To whom the goodly earth and air

Are banned,[4] and barred-forbidden fare;10

But this was for my father's faith

I suffered chains and courted death;

That father perished at the stake

For tenets he would not forsake;

And for the same his lineal race

In darkness found a dwelling place;

We were seven-who now are one,[5]

Six in youth, and one in age,

Finished as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage;[c]20

One in fire, and two in field,

Their belief with blood have sealed,

Dying as their father died,

For the God their foes denied;-

Three were in a dungeon cast,

Of whom this wreck is left the last.

Chapter 2 No.2

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,[6]

In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,

There are seven columns, massy and grey,

Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,30

A sunbeam which hath lost its way,

And through the crevice and the cleft

Of the thick wall is fallen and left;

Creeping o'er the floor so damp,

Like a marsh's meteor lamp:[7]

And in each pillar there is a ring,[8]

And in each ring there is a chain;

That iron is a cankering thing,

For in these limbs its teeth remain,

With marks that will not wear away,40

Till I have done with this new day,

Which now is painful to these eyes,

Which have not seen the sun so rise

For years-I cannot count them o'er,

I lost their long and heavy score

When my last brother drooped and died,

And I lay living by his side.

Chapter 3 No.3

They chained us each to a column stone,

And we were three-yet, each alone;

We could not move a single pace,50

We could not see each other's face,

But with that pale and livid light

That made us strangers in our sight:

And thus together-yet apart,

Fettered in hand, but joined in heart,[d]

'Twas still some solace in the dearth

Of the pure elements of earth,

To hearken to each other's speech,

And each turn comforter to each

With some new hope, or legend old,60

Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.

Our voices took a dreary tone,

An echo of the dungeon stone,

A grating sound, not full and free,

As they of yore were wont to be:

It might be fancy-but to me

They never sounded like our own.

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