THE IMPROVISATRICE.
53
But now the notes I waked were sad,
As those the pining wood-dove sings.
THE INDIAN BRIDE.
She has lighted her lamp, and crowned it with flowers,
The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours;
Red and white roses linked in a band,
Like a maiden's blush, or a maiden's hand;
Jasmines,—some like silver spray,
Some like gold in the morning ray;
Fragrant stars,—and favourites they,
When Indian girls, on a festival-day,
Braid their dark tresses: and over all weaves
The rosy bower of lotus leaves—
Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark,
Love's own flowers, and Love's own ark.
