After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.

But the fittest dirge is his own last lay, written on the day he completed his thirty-sixth year, soon after his arrival at Missolonghi, when his hopes of obtaining distinction in the Greek cause were, perhaps, brightest; and yet it breathes of dejection almost to boding.

’Tis 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 canker, and the grief
      Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
   Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze—­
      A funeral pile.

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

But ’tis not here—­it is not here—­
   Such thoughts should shake my soul; nor now
Where glory seals 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
My life-blood tastes its parent lake,
      And then strike home!

I tread reviving passions down,
   Unworthy manhood!  Unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
      Of beauty be.

If thou regrett’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.

CHAPTER XLVIII

The funeral Preparations and final Obsequies

The death of Lord Byron was felt by all Greece as a national misfortune.  From the moment it was known that fears were entertained for his life, the progress of the disease was watched with the deepest anxiety and sorrow.  On Easter Sunday, the day on which he expired, thousands of the inhabitants of Missolonghi had assembled on the spacious plain on the outside of the city, according to an ancient custom, to exchange the salutations of the morning; but on this occasion it was remarked, that instead of the wonted congratulations, “Christ is risen,” they inquired first, “How is Lord Byron?”

On the event being made known, the Provisional Government assembled, and a proclamation, of which the following is a translation, was issued

“Provisional Government of Western Greece.

“The day of festivity and rejoicing is turned into one of sorrow and morning.

“The Lord Noel Byron departed this life at eleven {354} o’clock last night, after an illness of ten days.  His death was caused by an inflammatory fever.  Such was the effect of his Lordship’s illness on the public mind, that all classes had forgotten their usual recreations of Easter, even before the afflicting event was apprehended.