THE IMPROVISATRICE.
49
I sought the gallery: I was wont
To pass the noontide there, and trace
Some Statue’s shape of loveliness—
Some Saint, or Nymph, or Muse’s face.
There in my rapture I could throw
My pencil and its hues aside,
And, as the vision past me, pour
My song of passion, joy, and pride.
And he was there,—Lorenzo there!
How soon the morning past away,
With finding beauties in each thing
Neither had seen before that day!
Spirit of Love! soon thy rose-plumes wear
The weight and the sully of canker and care:
Falsehood is round thee; Hope leads thee on,
Till every hue from thy pinion is gone.
