Cold as the ice on Ætna’s wintry brow,
And hotter than its flame. All these by turns.
A mystery to his tutors and to me—
Yet some have said his father fathomed him—
A mystery to my daughter, but a charm
Deeper than magic. Him my daughter loved.
. . . . . .
My functions drew me to the castle oft,
Thither sometimes my daughter went with me;
And I have noticed how young Odo’s eyes