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THE IMPROVISATRICE.
I lived,—if that may be called life,
From which each charm of life has fled—
Happiness gone, with hope and love,—
In all but breath already dead.
Rust gathered on the silent chords
Of my neglected lyre,—the breeze
Was now its mistress: music brought
For me too bitter memories!
The ivy darkened o'er my bower;
Around, the weeds choked every flower.
I pleased me in this desolateness,
As each thing bore my fate's impress.
At length I made myself a task—
To paint that Cretan maiden's fate,
