THE IMPROVISATRICE.
73
And primroses, pale gems of Spring,
Lay on the green turf glistening,
Close by the violet, whose breath
Is so sweet in a dewy wreath.
And oh, that myrtle! how green it grew!
With flowers as white as the pearls of dew
That shone beside: and the glorious rose
Lay, like a beauty in warm repose,
Blushing in slumber. The air was bright
With the spirit and glow of its crimson light.
Cydippe had turned from her columned hall,
Where, the queen of the feast, she was worshipped by all;
Where the vases were burning with spices and flowers,
And the odorous waters were playing in showers;
