THE IMPROVISATRICE.
15
And hold their strange and secret power,
Even on pleasure’s golden hour.
I had been looking on the river,
Half-marvelling to think that ever
Wind, wave, or sky, could darken where
All seemed so gentle and so fair:
And mingled with these thoughts there came
A tale, just one that Memory keeps—
Forgotten music, still some chance
Vibrate the chord whereon it sleeps!
A MOORISH ROMANCE.
Softly through the pomegranate groves
Came the gentle song of the doves;
Shone the fruit in the evening light,
Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright;
