THE IMPROVISATRICE.
27
Long past away! Beneath its shade,
A soft green couch the turf has made:—
And glad the morning sun is shining
On those beneath the boughs reclining.
Nearer the fisher drew. He saw
The dark hair of the Moorish maid,
Like a veil, floating o’er the breast,
Where tenderly her head was laid:—
And yet her lover’s arm was placed
Clasping around the graceful waist!
But then he marked the youth’s black curls
Were dripping wet with foam and blood;
And that the maiden’s tresses dark
Were heavy with the briny flood!
Woe for the wind!—woe for the wave!
They sleep the slumber of the grave!
