THE IMPROVISATRICE.
23
And bade the wandering captive flee,
In words he knew from infancy!
And then he thought how for her love
He had braved slavery and death,
That he might only breathe the air
Made sweet and sacred by her breath.
She reached the grove of cypresses,—
Another step is by her side:
Another moment, and the bark
Bears the fair Moor across the tide!
‘Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight,
To mark her eyes,—now dark, now bright,
As now they met, now shrank away,
From the gaze that watched and worshipped their day.
