74
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
And lamps were blazing—those lamps of perfume
Which shed such a charm of light over the bloom
Of woman, when Pleasure a spell has thrown
Over one night hour and made it her own.
And the ruby wine-cup shone with a ray,
As the gems of the East had there melted away;
And the bards were singing those songs of fire,
That bright eyes and the goblet so well inspire;—
While she, the glory and pride of the hour,
Sat silent and sad in her secret bower!
There is a grief that wastes the heart,
Like mildew on a tulip's dyes,—
When hope, deferred but to depart,
Loses its smiles, but keeps its sighs;
