Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/139

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The moon shone brightly, as it used to do Ere youth, and hope, and love, had been untrue; But it shone o'er the desolate! The flowers Were dead; the faded jessamine, unbound, Trailed, like a heavy weed, upon the ground; And fell the moonlight vainly over trees, Which had not even one rose,—although the breeze, Almost as if in mockery, had brought Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught! She entered in the cottage. None were there! The hearth was dark,—the walls looked cold and bare! All—all spoke poverty and suffering! All—all was changed; and but one only thing Kept its old place! 's mandolin Hung on the wall, where it had ever been.