George Gordon, Lord Byron, born in 1788, died in Greece on April 19, 1824 — ill from the systematic abuse of his health in his frantic-paced life, a bad fever, and the misdoctoring of bloodletting. He was only 36, and he had found, for perhaps the first time in his life, a consuming goal: his fight to free Greece from rule by the Ottoman Empire. Establishing himself at the western Greek town of Missolonghi, he spent his fortune and his last days struggling to bring unity to the rival Greek factions whose division slowed the revolution against the Turks.

On January 22, 1824, in acknowledgement of his birthday, he wrote one of his last works — today’s Poem of the Day in The New York Sun. “January 22nd, Missolonghi: On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year” is an interesting production. The poet pictures himself as old, still capable of desire but no longer a youthful object of others’ desire: “though I cannot be beloved, / Still let me love!” And the inspiration he declares, the fire and the drive that pulls him out of aging languor, is freedom for Greece: “Awake (not Greece — she is awake!) / Awake, my Spirit!”

Written in quatrains rhymed abab, the ten stanzas are formed by three four-beat lines followed by a sapphic-like shortened last line of two beats. And the poem ends with the poet’s calling himself to heroism and a hero’s death: “Seek out — less often sought than found — / A Soldier’s Grave . . . / Then look around, and choose thy Ground, / And take thy rest.” That April, less than three months later, Lord Byron died.

January 22nd, Missolonghi
On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year
by Lord Byron

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
       Since others it hath 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 canker, 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 ’tis not thus — and ’tis not here 
       Such thoughts should shake my Soul, nor now, 
Where Glory decks the hero’s bier, 
                                    Or binds his brow. 

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

   Awake (not Greece — she is awake!) 
       Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake 
                                    And then strike home! 

   Tread those reviving passions down 
       Unworthy Manhood — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
                                    Of beauty be. 

   If thou regret’st thy Youth, why live? 
       The land of honourable Death 
Is here: — up to the Field, and give 
                                    Away thy 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.

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With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems are drawn from the deep traditions of English verse: the great work of the past and the living poets who keep those traditions alive. The goal is always to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.