Of the light cap, while the soft air
Ruffled the curls of raven hair,
And parted them enough to show
The forehead's height of mountain snow.
But he has left his train behind,—
A lover's step is on the wind;—
And he is by the maiden's side,
Whose eye is drooped, as if to hide
How joy has lighted it; she lent
Like one of those sweet visions sent
To the young bard, when tones that weep
From leaf to flower have lulled his sleep.
In that Italian gallery, where
The painter and the sculptor share
Their gift of beauty, stands a form
Just like hers, only not so warm
With blushes, but the same soft eye
Seeking the ground;—just such a sigh
Upon the parted lips;—so prest
The small hands on the throbbing breast.
The same bowed attitude, so meek!
Oh, misery, that love should seek
A temple made so pure, so fair,
To leave his wreck and ruin there!
"Christine, my own Christine;"—she felt
The words upon her flushed cheek melt:
She met his radiant eyes—to-night
Surely some cloud is on their light;—
