Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/177

Rh

Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs’ strain, And will not know its look is vain! At length he turned,—his silent mood Sought that impassioned solitude, The Eden of young hearts, when first Love in its loneliness is nurst. He sat him by a little fount; A tulip-tree grew by its side, A lily with its silver towers Floated in silence on the tide; And far round a banana tree Extended its green sanctuary; And the long grass, which was his seat, With every movement grew more sweet, Yielding a more voluptuous scent At every blade his pressure bent.