"Alas!" said Byron, "our union would have wiped out the recollection of the blood shed between our fathers; it would have reunited two rich estates and two beings who would have agreed well enough together, and then--and then--Ah, well, God knows what might have happened!" But Byron was lame; he was obliged to avoid all kinds of exercise that could expose his deformity, and consequently dancing. Now Miss Chaworth was particularly fond of dancing, and Byron would stand, leaning against a corner by the door or against the chimneypiece, his arms crossed, frowning, with his lips curled with anger, whilst the music carried far away from him the girl he loved, some dancer more lucky than he leading her through the figures of a quadrille or guiding her in the whirl of a valse. Once, someone said to Mary Chaworth-- "Do you know that Byron seems deeply in love with you?" "Well, what does it matter to me?" replied Mary. "What! do you mean what you say?" "Of course I do. Do you really think I could care for that lame boy?" Byron heard both questions and answers, and he said it was as though a dagger had struck him to the heart. These words were uttered at midnight; but he rushed out of the house like a madman and ran without stopping to Newstead, where, on arrival, he fell nearly fainting from exhaustion. And yet, the disdainful Miss Chaworth having one day sent her portrait to him, Byron, in exchange, sent her the following verses:-- TO MARY ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE "This faint resemblance of thy charms, Though strong as mortal art could give, My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. Here I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, The lips which made me beauty's slave. Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire. Here I behold its beauteous hue; But where's the beam so sweetly straying, Which gave a lustre to its blue, Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her who placed thee next my heart. She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there Held every sense in fast control. Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill cheer; My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; In life's last conflict 'twill appear, And meet my fond expiring gaze." A year later, Miss Chaworth married. "Pull out your handkerchief, my son," Lady Byron said to the lad, one day on returning home. "What for, mother?" "Because I have bad news for you." "What is it?" "Miss Chaworth is married."