"And she was lost--and yet I breathed, But not the breath of human life: A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorred all place,[en] Shuddering I shrank from Nature's face, Where every hue that charmed before The blackness of my bosom wore. The rest thou dost already know, 1200 And all my sins, and half my woe. But talk no more of penitence; Thou seest I soon shall part from hence: And if thy holy tale were true, The deed that's done canst _thou_ undo? Think me not thankless--but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief.[eo][121] My soul's estate in secret guess: But wouldst thou pity more, say less. When thou canst bid my Leila live, 1210 Then will I sue thee to forgive; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased masses proffer grace.[ep] Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung From forest-cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness: But soothe not--mock not _my_ distress! "In earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers,[eq] 1220 I had--Ah! have I now?--a friend![er] To him this pledge I charge thee send,[es] Memorial of a youthful vow; I would remind him of my end: Though souls absorbed like mine allow Brief thought to distant Friendship's claim, Yet dear to him my blighted name. 'Tis strange--he prophesied my doom, And I have smiled--I then could smile-- When Prudence would his voice assume, 1230 And warn--I recked not what--the while: But now Remembrance whispers o'er[et] Those accents scarcely marked before. Say--that his bodings came to pass, And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth: Tell him--unheeding as I was, Through many a busy bitter scene Of all our golden youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 1240 To bless his memory--ere I died; But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name; And what have I to do with Fame? I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn; And what than Friendship's manly tear May better grace a brother's bier? 1250 But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him--what thou dost behold! The withered frame, the ruined mind, The wrack by passion left behind, A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf, Seared by the autumn blast of Grief!