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THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Before her was the darkling sea:
Behind the barren mountains rose—
A fit home for the broken heart
To weep away life, wrongs, and woes!
I had now but one hope:—that when
The hand that traced these tints was cold—
Its pulse but in their passion seen—
Lorenzo might these tints behold,
And find my grief;—think—see—feel all
I felt, in this memorial!
It was one evening,—the rose-light
Was o'er each green veranda shining;
Spring was just breaking, and white buds
Were 'mid the darker ivy twining.
My hall was filled with the perfume
Sent from the early orange bloom:
