Byron wrote a poem called 'A Sketch,' in which he lays the blame of
stirring up strife on a friend and former governess of Lady Byron's; but
in this sketch he introduces the following just eulogy on Lady Byron:--

'Foiled was perversion by that youthful mind
Which flattery fooled not, baseness could not blind,
Deceit infect not, near contagion soil,
Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil,
Nor mastered science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown,
Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain,
Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain,
Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow,
Nor virtue teach austerity,--till now;
Serenely purest of her sex that live,
But wanting one sweet weakness,--to forgive;
Too shocked at faults her soul can never know,
She deemed that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend;
For Virtue pardons those she would amend.'

In leaving England, Lord Byron first went to Switzerland, where he
conceived and in part wrote out the tragedy of 'Manfred.' Moore speaks
of his domestic misfortunes, and the sufferings which he underwent at
this time, as having influence in stimulating his genius, so that he was
enabled to write with a greater power.

Anybody who reads the tragedy of 'Manfred' with this story in his mind
will see that it is true.

The hero is represented as a gloomy misanthrope, dwelling with impenitent
remorse on the memory of an incestuous passion which has been the
destruction of his sister for this life and the life to come, but which,
to the very last gasp, he despairingly refuses to repent of, even while
he sees the fiends of darkness rising to take possession of his departing
soul. That Byron knew his own guilt well, and judged himself severely,
may be gathered from passages in this poem, which are as powerful as
human language can be made; for instance this part of the 'incantation,'
which Moore says was written at this time:--

'Though thy slumber may be deep,
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep:
There are shades which will not vanish;
There are thoughts thou canst not banish.
By a power to thee unknown,
Thou canst never be alone:
Thou art wrapt as with a shroud;
Thou art gathered in a cloud;
And for ever shalt thou dwell
In the spirit of this spell.

. . . .

From thy false tears I did distil
An e