“The captain spoke quietly. He wondered where all the people had gone, and they had been, and who their kings were, and how they had died. And he wondered, quietly aloud, how they had built this city to last the ages through, and had they ever come to Earth? And had they loved and hated similar loves and hates, and done similar silly things when silly things were done?
“Nobody moved. The moons held and froze them; the wind beat slowly around them.
“‘Lord Byron,” said Jeff Spender.
“Lord who?” The captain turned and regarded him.
“Lord Byron, a nineteenth century poet. He wrote a poem a long time ago that fits this city and how the Martians must feel, if there’s anything left of them to feel. It might have been written by the last Martian poet.”
“The men stood motionless, their shadows under them.
“The captain said, “How does the poem go, Spender?”
“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.”
“The city was grey and high and motionless. The men’s faces were turned in the light.
“For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself must rest.
“Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll no more go a-roving
By the light of the moon.”
“Without a word the Earth Men stood in the center of the city. It was a clear night. There was not a sound except the wind. At their feet lay a tile court worked into the shapes of ancient animals and people.”
“
There be none of Beauty’s daughters
with a magic like thee,
like music on the waters,
is thy sweet voice to me,
As if the sound were causing
The charmed oceans pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
The lulled winds seem dreaming.”
Are much more pleasing and tasteful than “Is it just you, or is it hot in here.”
Part Two
George Gordon, Lord Byron was one of younger poets of Romantic rebellion, closer in age to P.B. Shelley and John Keats than to the William Wordsworth or Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the rebellion’s leaders. These poets claimed Shakespeare as one of their own, seeking to restore his vitality and red-bloodedness that had been lost in subsequent generations of poets. All five of these men were likewise inspired by the poetry of William Blake, an old man when Coleridge and Wordsworth came of age. Their inspiration did not come totally from other poets, but likewise came from the American and French revolutions, and sought similar revolutions in literature. Each man had their various muses and themes. Coleridge had religious ecstasy and opium, Wordsworth inspired by Nature, to Shelley exaltation, Keats contemplating the beauties of Greek culture, and Byron had Milton’s Lucifer (in his Don Juan cantos) and women (you could call him a Don Juan). Romantics, now synonymous with romance, yet Byron was the only great writer of love poems among them. And the affection was returned to him, causing scandal and forcing him to leave England for good. Byron died on April, the 19th 1824 in Greece after being bled by doctors. Reason for being in Greece, was he was leading a group of Greek rebels against the Ottoman empire, which then was ruling Greece.
Part 3
I don’t think I want to imitate Byron’s life or lifestyle, but I find his poetry to be remarkable, and certainly worth reading. He, along with the rest of the Romantics have seemingly fallen out of favor. Wordsworth is marginalized, Keats is treated with cute condescension, Shelley is diagnosed with Messiah complexes and Byron’s poetry is rejected because of his character. This is a misguided Victorian argument for ignorance. It is a ad hominem (to the man) attack, which is a logical fallacy trying to reject men’s words by denigrating their character.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er 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!
