50
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
‘Twas as my heart’s full happiness
Poured over all its own excess.
One night there was a gorgeous feast
For maskers in Count Leon’s hall;
And all of gallant, fair, and young,
Were bidden to the festival.
I went, garbed as a Hindoo girl;
Upon each arm and amulet,
And by my side a little lute
Of sandal-wood with gold beset.
And shall I own that I was proud
To hear, amid the gazing crowd,
A murmur of delight, when first
My mask and veil I threw aside?
For well my conscious cheek betrayed
Whose eye was gazing on me too!
