THE IMPROVISATRICE.
21
The hymn the mother taught her child
Is sung each evening at her tomb.
But quick the twilight time has past,
Like one of those sweet calms that last
A moment and no more, to cheer
The turmoil of our pathway here.
The bark is waiting in the bay,
Night darkens round:—Leila, away!
Far, ere to-morrow, o’er the tide,
Or wait and be—Abdalla's bride!
She touched her lute—never again
Her ear will listen to its strain!
She took her cage, first kissed the breast—
Then freed the white dove prisoned there:
