'He entered in the house no more his home, A thing to human feelings the most trying, And harder for the heart to overcome, Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; To find our hearthstone turned into a tomb, And round its once warm precincts palely lying The ashes of our hopes.' 'But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed On that beloved daughter; she had been The only thing which kept his heart unclosed Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, A lonely pure affection unopposed: There wanted but the loss of this to wean His feelings from all milk of human kindness, And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness.' In the fourth canto we are introduced to Haidée, who resembled Lambro in features and stature, even to the delicacy of their hands. We are told that owing to the violence of emotion and the agitation of her mind she broke a bloodvessel, and lay unconscious on her couch for days. Like Astarte in 'Manfred,' 'her blood was shed: I saw, but could not stanch it': 'She looked on many a face with vacant eye, On many a token without knowing what: She saw them watch her without asking why, And recked not who around her pillow sat. * * * * * 'Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to the harper's tune: he changed the theme And sang of Love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flashed the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.' 'Short solace, vain relief! Thought came too quick, And whirled her brain to madness.' 'She died, but not alone; she held within, A second principle of Life, which might Have dawned a fair and sinless child of sin; But closed its little being without light.' 'Thus lived--thus died she; never more on her Shall Sorrow light, or Shame.' In the fifth canto, written in 1820, after the 'Stanzas to the Po,' we find Byron once more in a confidential mood: 'I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me; And still it half calls up the realms of Fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be; All feelings changed, but this was last to vary A spell from which even yet I am not quite free.' And there is a sigh for Mary Chaworth in the following lines: 'To pay my court, I Gave what I had--a heart; as the world went, I Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 'Twas the boy's mite, and like the widow's may Perhaps be weighed hereafter, if not now; But whether such things do or do not weigh, All who have loved, or love, will still allow Life has naught like it.'