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THE BROKEN LUTE.
95
Lit from within was her noble brow,
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue,
As if ye might see how the soul wrought through;
And every flash of her fervent eye
Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy.
Even thus it was!—from her childhood's years,—
A being of sudden smiles and tears,—
Passionate visions, quick light and shade,—
Such was that high-born Italian maid!
And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell,
Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell,—
Or as the sounds in the Eolian strings,—
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings;
There, ever there, with the life enshrined,
Waiting the call of the faintest wind.
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
In the city's hour of moonlight glee,—
