46
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Of agony—the cold death sweat
Is on his face—his teeth are set—
His bursting eyes are glazed and still:
The drug has done its work of ill.
Alas! for her who watched each breath,
The cup her love had mixed bore—death!
Lorenzo!—when next morning came
For the first time I heard thy name!
Lorenzo!—how each ear-pulse drank
The more than music of that tone!
Lorenzo!—how I sighed that name,
As breathing it, made it mine own!
