elody.

From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall:
It hath taught me that what I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

To her he sent one of the first presentation copies of "Childe
Harold," with this inscription: "To Augusta, my dearest sister and
my best friend, who has ever loved me much better than I deserved,
this volume is presented by her father's son and most affectionate
brother." He wrote to her those expressions of love beginning,

The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine;

and ending,

Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes,
In following mine,
Still sweeten more
These banks of Rhine,

expressions so transcendently fond and earnest in their beauty,
that it is a thrilling luxury to linger on them, return to them,
and repeat them over and over.

One of the finest and richest productions of his genius, both in
thought and in passion, is the poem he wrote to her when he was
living at Diodati, on the banks of Leman.

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.

I feel almost, at times, as I have felt
In happy childhood: trees and flowers and brooks,
Which do remember me of where I dwelt
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books;
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
My heart with recognition of their looks;
And even, at moments, I could think I see
Some living thing to love, but none like thee.

Oh that thou wert but with me! but I grow
The fool of my own wishes, and forget
The solitude which I have vaunted so
Has lost its praise in this but one regret.

The last intelligible words of Byron were,
"Augusta, Ada, my sister, my child."

It would be hard to find a friendship more deeply rooted, more
inclusive of the lives of the parties, proof against terrible
trials, full of quiet fondness and substantial devotion, than that
of Charles Lamb and his sister Mary. The earliest written
expression of this attachment occurs in a sonnet "To