George Gordon Byron

'T is time this heart should be unmoved,
    Since others it has ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
                Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
    The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the cancer, and the grief
                Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
    Is lone as some Volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze –
                A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
    The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
                But wear the chain.

But ‘t is not ‘thus’ – and ‘t is not ‘here’ –
    Such thoughts should shake my soul, not ‘now’
Where Glory decks the hero’s bier,
                Or binds his brow.

The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,
    Glory and Greece around me see!
The Spartan, born upon his shield,
                Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece – she ‘is’ awake!)
    Awake my spirit! Think through ‘whom’
The life-blood tracks its parent lake,
                And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
    Unworthy  manhood! – unto thee
Indifferent should the smile and frown
                Of Beauty be.

If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?
    The land of honorable death
Is here: - up to the Field, and give
                Away the breath!

Seek out – less often sought than found –
    A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
                And take thy Rest.