On his return from an excursion to Diodati, an occasion was afforded for the gratification of his jesting propensities by the avowal of the young physician (Polidori) that--he had fallen in love. On the evening of this tender confession they both appeared at Shelley's cottage--Lord Byron, in the highest and most boyish spirits, rubbing his hands as he walked about the room, and in that utter incapacity of retention which was one of his foibles, making jesting allusions to the secret he had just heard. The brow of the doctor darkened as this pleasantry went on, and, at last, he angrily accused Lord Byron of hardness of heart. "I never," said he, "met with a person so unfeeling." This sally, though the poet had evidently brought it upon himself, annoyed him most deeply. "Call _me_ cold-hearted--_me_ insensible!" he exclaimed, with manifest emotion--"as well might you say that glass is not brittle, which has been cast down a precipice, and lies dashed to pieces at the foot!" TO AUGUSTA. I. My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine, Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine. Go where I will, to me thou art the same-- A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny-- A world to roam through, and a home with thee. II. The first were nothing--had I still the last, It were the haven of my happiness; But other claims and other ties thou hast, And mine is not the wish to make them less. A strange doom is thy father's son's, and part Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore-- He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. III. If my inheritance of storms hath been In other elements, and on the rocks Of perils overlook'd or unforeseen, I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen My errors with defensive paradox; I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe. IV. Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. My whole life was a contest, since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd The gift--a fate, or will, that walk'd astray; And I at times have found the struggle hard, And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay: But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive. V. Kingdoms and empires in my little day I have outlived, and yet I am not old; And when I look on this, the petty spray Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: Something--I know not what--does still uphold A spirit of slight patience--not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. VI.