THE IMPROVISATRICE.
99
Glad as the sky-lark's earliest song—
Sweet as the sigh of the spring gale!
All, all that life will ever be,
Shone o'er, divinest love! by thee.
Oh, mockery of happiness!
Love now was all too late to save.
False Love! oh what had you to do
With one you had led to the grave?
A little time I had been glad
To mark the paleness on my cheek;
To feel how, day by day, my step
Grew fainter, and my hand more weak;
To know the fever of my soul
Was also preying on my frame:
