'Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alla given, To lift from earth our low desire. I grant _my_ love imperfect, all That mortals by the name miscall; Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; But say, oh say, _hers_ was not Guilt! And she was lost--and yet I breathed, But not the breath of human life: A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife.' Who can doubt that the friend 'of earlier days,' whose memory the Giaour wishes to bless before he dies, but whom he dares not bless lest Heaven should 'mark the vain attempt' of guilt praying for the guiltless, was Mary Chaworth. He bids the friar tell that friend 'What thou didst behold: The withered frame--the ruined mind, The wreck that Passion leaves behind-- The shrivelled and discoloured leaf, Seared by the Autumn blast of Grief.' He wonders whether that friend is still his friend, as in those earlier days, when hearts were blended in that sweet land where bloom his native valley's bowers. To that friend he sends a ring, which was the memorial of a youthful vow: 'Tell him--unheeding as I was, Through many a busy bitter scene Of all our golden youth hath been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried To bless his memory--ere I died; I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name; I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn. But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him what thou dost behold!' The motto chosen by Byron for 'The Giaour' is in itself suggestive: 'One fatal remembrance--one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our Joys and our Woes-- To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, For which Joy hath no balm--and affliction no sting.' On October 10, 1813, Byron arrived at Newstead, where he stayed for a month. Mary Chaworth was at Annesley during that time. On his return to town he wrote (November 8) to his sister: 'MY DEAREST AUGUSTA, 'I have only time to say that my long silence has been occasioned by a thousand things (with which _you_ are not concerned). It is not Lady Caroline, nor Lady Oxford; _but perhaps you may guess_, and if you do, do not tell. You do not know what mischief your being with me might have prevented. You shall hear from me to-morrow; in the meantime don't be alarmed. I am in _no immediate_ peril. 'Believe me, ever yours, 'B.' On November 30 Byron wrote to Moore: