are like to march off with an ague in this mud-basket’; he added that he would probably die – apologising for ‘a very
Seek out – less often sought than found –
bad pun’ – ‘not martially but marsh-ally.’
A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Fiona MacCarthy, in Byron: Life and Legend (2002), suggests that Byron’s real heroism at Missolonghi was the sacrifice of his frequent need for quiet and solitary withdrawal. As soon as he arrived he was exposed to repeated visits by the
Then look around, and chose thy ground, And take thy Rest.
chiefs and primates, each with his own large noisy following of undisciplined armed men, and since his presence and
Byron’s health was deteriorating. He had a serious fit in February, following an earlier attack some months before.
opinions were in continual demand his house was the meeting place of everyone concerned with planning the war. ‘He,
Depression and fears for his mental health led to dieting, purgatives and heavy drinking. ‘I especially dread, in this
whose irritability was so intense, had to cope with the various military factions at Missolonghi, the constant sound of
world, two things […] growing fat and growing mad.’ He might have added, ‘and growing old’. He was appalled at the
gunfire in the street. The writer disgusted by the brutal facts of war now had to endure the massacres and horrors of a
signs of ageing, which were becoming all too apparent.
primitive and savage confrontation in which prisoners were slaughtered without compunction.’ Byron’s days of selfindulgence were over. The romantic swing of this poem hardly conceals a reluctant acceptance that his life was changing: 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. He wrote to Teresa Guiccioli, ‘Of course you might suppose that this is not exactly the place to pass the carnival in.’ As representative of the London Greek Committee, which was raising a large loan to support the war, he had frequently to complain to its members about their unrealistic ideas – ‘high-flown notions of the sixth form at Harrow or Eton’. He derided the often-irrelevant material sent to support the Greek cause, ‘for instance the Mathematical instruments are thrown away – none of the Greeks know a problem from a poker […] The use of trumpets too may be doubted – unless Constantinople were Jericho – for the Hellenists have no ear for Bugles – and you must send us somebody to listen to them.’ Aided by his sardonic humour and acute sense of the ridiculous, the poet was finding his feet as man of action. Increasingly he was becoming the voice of practical common sense. Much of Byron’s time was spent trying to keep the peace between the three rival armed parties in different regions of Greece whose bitter feuds prevented united action against the Turks. A rich man, he had sold the remainder of his
Byron was also in love – with his page-boy Lukas Chalandritsanos, feelings which were not returned. In the poem for his birthday he tried to overcome these emotions: Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood! – unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of Beauty be. Byron’s main sexual energies were directed towards women, but his attraction to adolescent boys was never far below the surface. He and his friends made every effort to keep these feelings hidden: in Byron’s day for the crime of sodomy you could be hanged. And yet he still wrote: Thus much and more – and yet thou lov’st me not, And never wilt – Love dwells not in our will – Nor can I blame thee – though it be my lot To strongly – wrongly – vainly love thee still. These and other references to the love that dare not speak its name were carefully removed by his friends after his death; and in a famous fireside scene in the office of John Murray, his London publishers, Byron’s friends and executors consigned his memoirs to the flames.
property in England and was now devoting his entire fortune to the Greek cause. While waiting for the loan from the London Committee, he used his own money to relaunch the Greek fleet lying at Hydra, and to plan an assault on the fortress port of Lepanto (Nafpaktos) using 500 Souliote warriors he now took on his payroll. On 22 January 1824, the night before his thirty-sixth birthday, he had worked on a poem. Some of its verses proved to be prophetic. 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 Sword, the Banner, and the Field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. […] If thou regret’st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here: – up to the Field, and give Away thy breath!
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