Far may thy days, as heretofore,[cc] From this our gaudy world be past! And that too bitter moment o'er, Oh! may such trial be thy last. 8. This heart, alas! perverted long, Itself destroyed might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.[cd] 9. Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign--such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall. 10. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness-- Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath passed, may guess What there thy bosom must endure. 11. Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again. 12. Though long and mournful must it be, The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree, And almost deem the sentence sweet. 13. Still--had I loved thee less--my heart Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part As if its guilt had made thee mine. 1813. [MS. M. First published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition).] IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.[52] When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye; Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink: My Thoughts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the Wanderers shrink, And _droop_ within their silent cell.[ce] _September_, 1813. [MS. M. first published, _Childe Harold_, 1814 (Seventh Edition).] SONNET. TO GENEVRA. Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the warm lustre of thy features--caught From contemplation--where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair-- Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought-- I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that _thou_ hast nothing to repent) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-- Such seem'st thou--but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue scorn. _December_ 17, 1813.[53] [MS. M. First published, _Corsair_, 1814 (Second Edition).]