THE IMPROVISATRICE.
41
It was a dark and tempest night—
No pleasant moon, no blest starlight;
But meteors glancing o’er the way,
Only to dazzle and betray.
And who is she that, ‘mid the storm,
Wraps her slight mantle round her form?
Her hair is wet with rain and sleet,
And blood is on her small snow feet.
She has been forced a way to make
Through prickly weed and thorned brake,
Up rousing from its coil the snake;
And stirring from their damp abode
The slimy worm and loathsome toad:
And shuddered as she heard the gale
Shriek like an evil spirit’s wail;
