THE IMPROVISATRICE.
45
Those passionate complaints that wring
A woman’s heart, yet never bring
Redress. She called upon each tree
To witness her lone constancy!
She called upon the silent boughs,
The temple of her Julian’s vows
Of happiness too dearly bought!
Then wept again. At length she thought
Upon the forest sorcerer’s gift—
The last, lone hope that love had left!
She took the cup and kissed the brim;
Mixed the dark spell, and gave it him
To pledge his once dear Ida’s name!
He drank it. Instantly the flame
Ran through his veins: one fiery throb
Of bitter pain—one gasping sob
