96
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Yet I was wretched, though I dwelt
In the sweet sight of Paradise:
A curse lay on me. But not now,
Thus smiled upon by those dear eyes,
Will I think over thoughts of pain.
I'll only tell thee that the line
That ever told Love's misery,
Ne'er told of misery like mine!
I wedded.—I could not have borne
To see the young Ianthe blighted
By that worst blight the spring can know—
Trusting affection ill requited!
Oh, was it that she was too fair,
Too innocent for this damp earth;
And that her native star above
Reclaimed again its gentle birth?
