Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! _Zöe mou, sas agapo._ Rapidly as his pen flies over the paper, the torrent of throbbing thought flows faster still. Far on into the night, when ghostly noises echo through the sleeping palace, "that ever-gushing and perennial fount of natural waters," as Scott has described the genius of Byron, pours forth in reckless profusion. Until at last, outspent with energy, he draws a deep breath of exhaustion, and realizes that he is weariness itself. The moon has sunk in Arno: the stars are half-way across the sky: a cold glimmer of dawn is palpitating along the East, as Byron-- "Again to that accustom'd couch must creep Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep." After day's fitful fever he sleeps well: and rest, a few short hours of it, is due to that perturbed spirit, which now, ... O'erlabour'd with his being's strife, Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life ... That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. (_Lara._) [Illustration] _Printed by Percy Lund, Humphries & Co., Ltd._, _Bradford and London._ End of Project Gutenberg's A Day with Lord Byron, by May Clarissa Gillington