James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
January 22On My Thirty-seventh Birthday
By Lord Byron (17881824)’T
Since others it has ceased to move;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze,—
A funeral pile!
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
Where glory decks the hero’s bier,
Or binds his brow.
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Unworthy manhood! unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
The land of honorable death
Is here:—up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.