ot and hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapped in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend.

* * * *

'To aid thy mind's developments, to watch
The dawn of little joys, to sit and see
Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,--wonders yet to thee,--
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss;--
This it should seem was not reserved for me.
Yet this was in my nature,--as it is,
I know not what there is, yet something like to this.

----------

'_Yet though dull hate as duty should be taught_,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut out from thee as spell still fraught
With desolation and a broken claim,
Though the grave close between us,--'t were the same
I know that thou wilt love me, though to drain
My blood from out thy being were an aim
And an attainment,--all will be in vain.'

To all these charges against her, sent all over the world in verses as
eloquent as the English language is capable of, the wife replied nothing.

'Assailed by slander and the tongue of strife,
Her only answer was,--a blameless life.'

She had a few friends, a very few, with whom she sought solace and
sympathy. One letter from her, written at this time, preserved by
accident, is the only authentic record of how the matter stood with her.

We regret to say that the publication of this document was not brought
forth to clear Lady Byron's name from her husband's slanders, but to
shield _him_ from the worst accusation against him, by showing that this
crime was not included in the few private confidential revelations that
friendship wrung from the young wife at this period.

Lady Anne Barnard, authoress of 'Auld Robin Grey,' a friend whose age and
experience made her a proper confidante, sent for the broken-hearted,
perplexed wife, and offered her a woman's sympathy.

To her Lady Byron wrote many letters, under seal of confidence, and Lady
Anne says: 'I will give you a few paragraphs transcribed from one of Lady
Byron's own letters to me. It is sorrowful to think that in a very
little time this young and amiable creature, wise, patient, and feeling,
will have her character mistaken by every one who reads Byron's works. To
rescue her from this I preserved her letters, and when she afterwards
expressed a fear that anything of her writing should ever fall into hands
to i