Poetic Love for his Friend

The poet and literary giant George Gordon, the sixth Lord Byron, was born in London, England on Jan. 22, 1788.   Throughout his short, dynamic and controversial life, one thing remained constant ---  his great love of animals.

Shelley, fellow poet and friend to Byron, once wrote after a visit with his friend, that he counted "ten horses, eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, five cats, an eagle, a crow and a falcon" on his property in Italy.

Byron's most beloved dog, a black and white Newfoundland named Boatswain, died at five years of age after having contracted a painful bout of rabies.   The bereaved poet, who had maintained a constant nursing vigil, buried his pet in a garden tomb at Newstead Abbey (Byron's inherited estate).  Byron requested that when he died, he be laid to rest next to Boatswain.

                                              Byron's Epitaph to Boatswain

Near this spot are deposited the Remains

Of one who possessed Beauty Without Vanity,

Strength Without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man Without his Vices,

This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery

If inscribed over Human Ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 

"Boatswain", a dog,

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803.

And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808

When some proud son of man returns to earth,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,

And storied urns record who rests below;

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been;

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes, for him alone,

Unhonoured, falls, unnoticed  all his worth,

Denied in heaven, the soul he held on earth;

While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man!  thou tenant of an hour 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, they friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, they words deceit

By nature vile, ennobled but by name

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye!  who perchance behold this simple urn,

Pass on ---- it honours none you wish to mourn.

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;

I never knew but one---and here he lies.                        Byron

Lord Byron died of fever on April 19,1824 at Missolonghi, Greece, while fighting for Greek independence from Turkey.

Boatswain's collar cherished and preserved, was found among his meagre possessions.   

Lord Byron was laid to rest in the Byron family vault at Hucknall Torckard, near Newstead, on July 12,1824.