Lochnagar by George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron

Loch na gar - George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. The mountain Lochnagar is the subject of one of Byron's poems, in which he reminisces about his childhood. Away Ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses! In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, beloved are my mountains, Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered My cap was the bonnet my cloak was the plaid, On chieftains long perished my memory pondered, As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star For fancy was cheered by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 'Shades of the dead' have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car: Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr 'Ill-starred, though no visions foreboding Tell you that fate had foresaken your cause?' Ah! Were you destined to die at Culloden, Victory crowned not your fall with applause; Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar, The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have rolled on Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again. Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. England! Thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved o'er mountains afar, Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! George Gordon Byron, later Noel, 6th Baron Byron, of Rochdale, FRS (22 January 1788 19 April 1824) was a British poet and a leading figure in Romanticism. Amongst Byron's best-known works are the brief poems She Walks in Beauty, When We Two Parted, and So, we'll go no more a roving, in addition to the narrative poems Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and Don Juan. He is regarded as one of the greatest British poets and remains widely read and influential, both in the English-speaking world and beyond. Byron's notability rests not only on his writings but also on his life, which featured upper-class living, numerous love affairs, debts, and separation. He was notably described by Lady Caroline Lamb as "mad, bad, and dangerous to know".[1] Byron served as a regional leader of Italy's revolutionary organization, the Carbonari, in its struggle against Austria. He later travelled to fight against the Ottoman Empire in the Greek War of Independence, for which Greeks revere him as a national hero.[2] He died from a fever contracted while in Messolonghi in Greece.