THE IMPROVISATRICE.
31
In our own gallery, never bent
More graceful, more magnificent;
Ne’er look’d the hero, or the king,
More nobly than the youth who now,
As if soul-centred in my song,
Was leaning on a galley’s prow.
He spoke not when the other spoke,
His heart was all too full for praise;
But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine,
Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Mine sank—but yet I felt the thrill
Of that look burning on me still.
I heard no words that others said—
Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
My hand kept wandering on my lute,
In music, but unconsciously
