THE IMPROVISATRICE.
103
His brow, as sculpture beautiful,
Was wan as Grief's corroded page.
He had no words, he had no smiles,
No hopes:—his sole employ to brood
Silently over his sick heart
In sorrow and in solitude.
I saw the hall where, day by day,
He mused his weary life away;—
It scarcely seemed a place for woe,
But rather like a genie's home.
Around were graceful statues ranged,
And pictures shone around the dome.
But there was one—a loveliest one!—
One picture brightest of all there!
Oh! never did the painter's dream
Shape thing so gloriously fair!
