Life of Lord Byron, Vol. 1: With His Letters and Journals — John Shaqi
Life of Lord Byron, Vol. 1: With His Letters and JournalsMoore, Thomas
General
Life of Lord Byron, Vol. 1: With His Letters and Journals
Moore, Thomas
Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron, 1788-1824; Poets, English -- 19th century -- Biography
"Still I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life;
High poised in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue:
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of the impending blow.
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career--
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand."
Some feud, it appears, had arisen on the subject of the
cricket-ground, between these "clods" (as in school-language they are
called) and the boys, and one or two skirmishes had previously taken
place. But the engagement here recorded was accidentally brought on by
the breaking up of school and the dismissal of the volunteers from
drill, both happening, on that occasion, at the same hour. This
circumstance accounts for the use of the musket, the butt-end of which
was aimed at Byron's head, and would have felled him to the ground,
but for the interposition of his friend Tatersall, a lively,
high-spirited boy, whom he addresses here under the name of Davus.
Notwithstanding these general habits of play and idleness, which might
seem to indicate a certain absence of reflection and feeling, there
were moments when the youthful poet would retire thoughtfully within
himself, and give way to moods of musing uncongenial with the usual
cheerfulness of his age. They show a tomb in the churchyard at Harrow,
commanding a view over Windsor, which was so well known to be his
favourite resting-place, that the boys called it "Byron's tomb;"[34]
and here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in
thought,--brooding lonelily over the first stirrings of passion and
genius in his soul, and occasionally, perhaps, indulging in those
bright forethoughts of fame, under the influence of which, when little
more than fifteen years of age, he wrote these remarkable lines:--
"My epitaph shall be my name alone;
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay;
That, only that, shall single out the spot,
By that remember'd, or with that forgot."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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