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We'll go no more a-roving


By Lord Byron


 


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.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.



 

Lord Byron (1788-1824) was born in London. At the time of his birth (christened - 'George Gordon Byron') his parents were in hiding in France from their creditors; but came back especially so that he could be born in England. His father died when he was quite young, and at the age of ten he found himself Lord Byron. He had a title, but very little cash, as most of the money was tied up in lawsuits; and it was to be some time before his mother secured him a good income. He attended Cambridge University, but did little work, but did manage to spend beyond his means and write some poetry. His mothers neighbour encouraged him to publish his poetry, which he did in 1806 at the age of 18; before spending the next several years on a tour of the Middle East with friends. He returned in 1812, and published the first two Cantos of Childe Harold, which became an overnight sensation; and brought with it the admiration and attention of many women who Byron would have affairs with. He went on to marry in 1814, and had a daughter, but Byrons frequent infidelities caused strain, and in 1816 his wife asked for and received a formal seperation. The scandal caused Byron to leave London, and travel around Europe with Percy Shelley; finishing Childe Harold and writing Manfred and starting Don Juan. His adventures also included aiding Italian freedom fighters and later leading a group of Greek freedom fighters in a quest for independence from Turkey. Sadly, despite his heroic, romantic life, he died less boldly in 1824 from a chill he received while travelling on horseback during a sudden storm.


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