80
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Mark the last ray, catch the last breath,
Till the grave sets its sign of death!
This was Cydippe's fate!—They laid
The maiden underneath the shade
Of a green cypress,—and that hour
The tree was withered, and stood bare!
The spring brought leaves to other trees,
But never other leaf grew there!
It stood, 'mid others flourishing,
A blighted, solitary thing.
The summer sun shone on that tree,
When shot a vessel o'er the sea—
When sprang a warrior from the prow—
Leades! by the stately brow.
