The great British poet George Gordon Byron (pictured here), generally known simply as Lord Byron due to his status as the 6th Baron Byron, was born on this date in 1788. Byron lived a life full of scandal and intrigue before dying from disease while fighting in the Greek War of Independence at just 36 years of age. The final eight years of his life were spent in Europe following the dissolution of his marriage, including the famous summer of 1816 spent in Switzerland with, among others, fellow poet Percy Bysshe Shelley and his wife Mary. It was that summer in which Mary wrote the enduring Frankenstein. Although Henry Longfellow would not have condoned Byrons personal life, it does seem as if he was a fan of his work. The books pictured were photographed today in their prime location in Henrys study. Young Henry saw Byrons home in Venice where a gondolier told him that, he was a piccof uomo, pallido, ma pien di spirito e di talento II (a little pale man, but full of vivacity and talent). He was impressed that, twelve years after his death, everybody at Venice knows Lord Byron. At one point he wrote that Byron drove on through the upper air till the thunder of his wheels died on the ear. In March 1855, Henry, by then a world famous poet in his own right, recorded a visit to a visit to a Mrs. Follen in Brookline. He recorded in his journal that, She read us a passage from a letter she had just received from Lady Byron; a dying soldier on the field before Sebastopol was heard repeating the line, Footprints on the sands of Time. Surely Henry was excited to receive confirmation of his international renown, those lines were from Henrys 1839 poem A Psalm of Life, from such a source. Here is one of Byrons most famous works: She Walks in Beauty Like the Night SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all thats best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowd to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaird the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens oer her face, 1 Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek and oer that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,— A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. -Ranger Garrett Image accessed from Wikimedia Commons
Posted on: Thu, 22 Jan 2015 22:16:18 +0000
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