THE IMPROVISATRICE.
89
Whom Love taught such deep happiness,
And whom Love left so desolate.
I drew her on a rocky shore:—
Her black hair loose, and sprinkled o'er
With white sea-foam;—her arms were bare,
Flung upwards in their last despair.
Her naked feet the pebbles prest;
The tempest-wind sang in her vest:
A wild stare in her glassy eyes;
White lips, as parched by their hot sighs;
And cheek more pallid than the spray,
Which, cold and colourless, on it lay:—
Just such a statue as should be
Placed ever, Love! beside thy shrine;
Warning thy victims of what ills—
What burning tears, false god! are thine.
