10
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love
She was a long, last farewell taking;—
That, from her pale and parched lips,
Her latest, wildest song was breaking.
SAPPHO'S SONG.
Farewell, my lute!—and would that I
Had never waked thy burning chords!
Poison has been upon thy sigh,
And fever has breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute?
I should have been the wretch I am,
Had every chord of thine been mute.
It was my evil star above,
Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong;
