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SONG OF THE IMPROVISATRICE.
THERE's a balm on the air, and it drifts along
Like the fragrant breath of a fairy throng ;
There's a spell of love on the restless deep,
And the winds are still, and the waves asleep:
And the fringed lids of the summer flowers
Are folded down in their woodland bowers;
But their lips are bright with a dewy flush —
Do they dream of love, through the twilight hush ?
'Tis night, and the clouds, with their gorgeous dyes,
Have melted away in the pearl-blue skies ;
'Tis night, and the moon from her shadowy land
Has girdled the sea with a silver band;
Yet sorrowful strains o'er my bosom sweep,
Till my heart is full, and my eyes must weep;
For I miss a voice with its music tone,
And murmur in sadness, Alone, alone !
Alone, all alone! I am thinking now
Of a star-bright eye and a noble brow;
But I miss kind words, and the dimple smile,
And a dear hand clasping my own the while.
• Mine own, mine own!' 'Tis a worn-out strain,
Oft spoken in rapture, oft breathed in disdain ;
Yet the wildest bliss that the world has known
Is found in that sentence – Mine own, mine own !'.
My soul was dark, and a wild unrest,
Like a death-shroud, lay on my lonely breast ;
But the shadow passed, and I knew not how
Till thy lips were pressed to my burning brow!
The mist dissolved, for the night had gone,
And the beautiful tints of a holy dawn
Swept over my heart with a mighty change,
And filled it with melody deep and strange.
Thou hast gone from me now, and I will not tell
Of the wild, wild thoughts which my bosom swell ;
It would give too much to thy earnest heart -
Leaving too little for faith to impart !
Thy spirit is with me — thou canst not forget —
Thou'lt think of me ever with saddened regret ;
Fate may have bereft me -- it cannot control,
For thou art my being — the life of my soul!
'Tis night on the mountain — 'tis night on the sea :
Her star-'broidered mantle drapes forest and lea:
Bird music is hushed, and the streams are still,
And the wild leaves throb with a passionate thrill !
Sleep on !- sweetly sleep!- Be thy dreams as bright
As thy soul is strong in its power and might;
Sleep on — sweetly sleep, nor list to the moan
Of the minstrel heart, for it weeps alone !
O! BURY me not in the sunless tomb,
When Death in its chain has bound me;
Let me not sleep where the shadows loom,
In the stifled air around me;
Where the bones of the scarce-remembered dead
Keep a ghastly watch round my coffin bed!
O, bury me not ’mid the ceaseless hum .
Of the city's wild commotion, Where the steps of a thoughtless crowd might come,
Like the waves of a troubled ocean. In the eye of love should a tear-drop start, 'Twould crush it back on the swollen heart!
But bury me out in the wild, wild wood,
Where the sunlit leaves are dancing, Where the rills leap out with a merry shout,
And the brooks in the light are glancing ; Let my bed be made by the fond and true, Who can bear to weep when I'm shut from view.
In the forest home -- in the wild wood home
With the arching limbs above me,
Where the sunbeams creep for a quiet sleep,
To my grave, like dear friends that love me,
Let me rest 'mid the bloom of the pure and fair;
I should know that the blossoms I loved were there.