On September 8, 1814, four months after Byron had finished 'Lara,' while he was at Newstead with his sister and her children--the little Medora among them--he wrote his fragment 'Harmodia.' The rough draft was given after his marriage to Lady Byron, who had no idea to what it could possibly refer. When the scandal about Augusta was at its height, this fragment was impounded among other incriminating documents, and eventually saw the light in 'Astarte.' Lord Lovelace was firmly convinced that it was addressed to Augusta Leigh! Between September 7 and 15 Byron and Mary Chaworth were considering the desirability of marriage for Byron, and letters were passing between the distracted poet and two young ladies--Miss Milbanke and another--with that object in view. Although Byron was still in love with Mary Chaworth, he had come to understand that her determination to break the dangerous intimacy was irrevocable, so he resolved to follow her advice and marry. The tone of his letter to Moore, written on September 15, shows that he was not very keen about wedlock. He was making plans for a journey to Italy in the event of his proposal being rejected. It is possible that, in a conversation between Mary and himself, the former may have spoken of the risks they had incurred in the past, and of her resolve never to transgress again. To which Byron replied: HARMODIA. 'The things that were--and what and whence are they? Those clouds and rainbows of thy yesterday? Their path has vanish'd from th' eternal sky, And now its hues are of a different dye. Thus speeds from day to day, and Pole to Pole, The change of parts, the sameness of the whole; And all we snatch, amidst the breathing strife, But gives to Memory what it takes from Life: Despoils a substance to adorn a shade-- And that frail shadow lengthens but to fade. Sun of the sleepless! Melancholy Star! Whose tearful beam shoots trembling from afar-- _That chang'st_ the darkness thou canst not dispel-- How like art thou to Joy, remembered well! Such is the past--the light of other days That shines, but warms not with its powerless rays-- A moonbeam _Sorrow_ watcheth to behold, Distinct, but distant--clear, but _death-like_ cold. 'Oh! as full thought comes rushing o'er the Mind Of all we saw before--to leave behind-- Of all!--but words, what are they? Can they give A trace of truth to thoughts while yet they live? No--Passion--Feeling speak not--or in vain-- The tear for Grief--the Groan must speak for Pain-- Joy hath its smile--and Love its blush and sigh-- Despair her silence--Hate her lip and eye-- These their interpreters, where deeply lurk-- The Soul's despoilers warring as they work-- The strife once o'er--then words may find their way, Yet how enfeebled from the forced delay!