George Gordon, Lord Byron

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George Gordon, Lord Byron

• Lord Byron also known as George Gordon Byron was born in Aberdeen, Scotland, on January 22nd, 1788. He later inherited his family’s title at the young age of ten.• He studied at Aberdeen Grammar school and then went to Trinity College in Cambridge. During his school years Lord Byron published his first books of poetry. The first one was actually published anonymously and was given the title Fugitive Pieces, some of the poems written in the works were actually written when Byron was only 14 years old.• He was a very opinionated politician in the House of Lords, Lord Byron tended to use his popularity to help the public rather than himself. In many instances he spoke in favor of workers’ rights and social reform. • His personal life however was not as wonderful as his career seemed to be. He married and divorced his wife Anne Isabella Milbanke after she accused him of everything from incest to sodomy.• Lord Byron was terrified of being lynched, ad so as forced to flee England.• He began to contract many fevers and sicknesses, and later died on April 19, 1824, and the age of 36

• Lord Byron decided to stay in Greece and study the language which became a significant influence in his poetry. He stated “If I am a poet … the air of Greece has made me one.”• His poetry was also influenced by the poet Shelly, who had him read Wordsworth which turned into an influence for one of his cantos of Childe Harold.• He was also strongly influenced by orientalism.

Darknessby George Gordon, Lord ByronI had a dream, which was not all a dream.The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the starsDid wander darkling in the eternal space,Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earthSwung blind and blackening in the moonless air;Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,And men forgot their passions in the dreadOf this their desolation; and all heartsWere chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,The habitations of all things which dwell,Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,And men were gather'd round their blazing homesTo look once more into each other's face;Happy were those who dwelt within the eyeOf the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;Forests were set on fire--but hour by hourThey fell and faded--and the crackling trunksExtinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.The brows of men by the despairing lightWore an unearthly aspect, as by fitsThe flashes fell upon them; some lay downAnd hid their eyes and wept; and some did restTheir chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;And others hurried to and fro, and fedTheir funeral piles with fuel, and look'd upWith mad disquietude on the dull sky,The pall of a past world; and then againWith curses cast them down upon the dust,And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'dAnd, terrified, did flutter on the ground,And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutesCame tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'dAnd twin'd themselves among the multitude,Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.And War, which for a moment was no more,Did glut himself again: a meal was boughtWith blood, and each sate sullenly apartGorging himself in gloom: no love was left;All earth was but one thought--and that was deathImmediate and inglorious; and the pangOf famine fed upon all entrails--menDied, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,And he was faithful to a corse, and keptThe birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,Till hunger clung them, or the dropping deadLur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,But with a piteous and perpetual moan,And a quick desolate cry, licking the handWhich answer'd not with a caress--he died.The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but twoOf an enormous city did survive,And they were enemies: they met besideThe dying embers of an altar-placeWhere had been heap'd a mass of holy thingsFor an unholy usage; they rak'd up,And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton handsThe feeble ashes, and their feeble breathBlew for a little life, and made a flameWhich was a mockery; then they lifted upTheir eyes as it grew lighter, and beheldEach other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--Even of their mutual hideousness they died,Unknowing who he was upon whose browFamine had written Fiend. The world was void,The populous and the powerful was a lump,Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'dThey slept on the abyss without a surge--The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no needOf aid from them--She was the Universe.


Lord Byron had a vast imaginative mind, his style can be considered energetic and full of imagery. He was magnificent in the use of verse and rhyme, and in many instances tended to be quite expressive. His style was also quite classical


"George Gordon Byron." Academy of American Poets, n.d. Web. 06 Apr. 2014. "George Gordon Noel Byron." Gale Biography In Context. Encyclopedia of World Biography, 12 Dec. 1998. Web. 9 Apr. 2014."Lord Byron - Biography." Lord Byron. The European Graduate School, n.d. Web. 08 Apr. 2014.

George Gordon, Lord Byron




Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good NightBy: Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on that sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

My poem

Oh Lord, Lord ByronFor where shall we goAfter such trivial accusations,Well how would they know?To Greece you sayWhere the air is magicThe poet was madeWhich in the end was quite tragic.A man of power,And selflessness,You committed good deeds For those who were less. An imagination so wonderful From which you wroteOf darkness and chaosFrom which I will note.You sadly become illWith fevers and coldsLater to dieSadly not that old.


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