THE IMPROVISATRICE.
85
And coloured as each pictured pane
Shed o'er the blaze its crimson stain:—
While, from the window o'er my head,
A dim and sickly gleam was shed
From the young moon,—enough to shew
That tomb and table lay below.
I leant upon one monument,—
'Twas sacred to unhappy love:
On it were carved a blighted pine—
A broken ring—a wounded dove.
And two or three brief words told all
Her history who lay beneath:—
'The flowers—at morn her bridal flowers,—
'Formed, e'er the eve, her funeral wreath.'
I could but envy here. I thought,
How sweet it must be thus to die!
