THE IMPROVISATRICE.
33
And in the midst, beneath a shade
Of clustered rose, a fountain played,
Sprinkling its scented waters round,
With a sweet and lulling sound,—
O’er oranges, like Eastern gold,
Half hidden by the dark green fold
Of their large leaves;—o’er hyacinth bells,
Where every summer odour dwells.
And, nestled in the midst, a pair
Of white wood-doves, whose home was there:
And like an echo to their song,
At times a murmur past along;
A dying tone, a plaining fall,
So sad, so wild, so musical—
As the wind swept across the wire,
And waked my lone Æolian lyre,
