In a poem which must have been written in 1813, an apostrophe 'To Time,' Byron refers to Mary's resolutions. 'In Joy I've sighed to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light, But could not add a night to Woe; For then, however drear and dark, My soul was suited to thy sky; _One star alone_ shot forth a spark To prove thee--not Eternity. _That beam hath sunk._' It is of course true that matters were not, and could never again be, on the same footing as in July of that year; but Mary Chaworth was constancy itself, in a higher and a nobler sense than Byron attached to it, when he reproached her for broken vows. 'Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.' During the remainder of Byron's life, Mary took a deep interest in everything that affected him. In 1814, believing that marriage would be his salvation, she used her influence in that direction. We know that she did not approve of the choice which Byron so recklessly made, and she certainly had ample cause to deplore its results. Through her close intimacy with Augusta Leigh--an intimacy which has not hitherto been suspected--she became acquainted with every phase in Byron's subsequent career. She could read 'between the lines,' and solve the mysteries to be found in such poems as 'Lara,' 'Mazeppa,' 'Manfred,' and 'Don Juan.' We believe that Byron's love for Mary was the main cause of the indifference he felt towards his wife. In order to shield Mary from the possible consequences of a public investigation into conduct prior to his marriage, Byron, in 1816, consented to a separation from his wife. After Byron had left England Mary broke down under the strain she had borne so bravely, and her mind gave way. When at last, in April, 1817, a reconciliation took place between Mary and her husband, it was apparent to everyone that she had, during those four anxious years, become a changed woman. She never entirely regained either health or spirits. Her mind 'had acquired a tinge of religious melancholy, which never afterwards left it.' Sorrow and disappointment had subdued a naturally buoyant nature, and 'melancholy marked her for its own.' Shortly before her death, in 1832, she destroyed every letter she had received from Byron since those distant fateful years when, as boy and girl, they had wandered on the Hills of Annesley. For eight sad years Mary Chaworth survived the lover of her youth. Shortly before her death, in a letter to one of her daughters, she drew her own character which might fitly form her epitaph: 'Soon led, easily pleased, very hasty, and very relenting, with a heart moulded in a warm and affectionate fashion.'