THE IMPROVISATRICE.
81
Forgotten toil, forgotten care,
All his worn heart has had to bear.
That heart is full! He hears the sigh
That breathed 'Farewell!' so tenderly.
If even then it was most sweet,
What will it be that now they meet?
Alas! alas! Hope's fair deceit!
He spurred o'er land, has cut the wave,
To look but on Cydippe's grave.
It has blossomed in beauty, that lone tree,
Leades' kiss restored its bloom;
For wild he kissed the withered stem—
It grew upon Cydippe's tomb!
And there he dwelt. The hottest ray,
Still dew upon the branches lay
