Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/197



Alas, for the bright promise of our youth! How soon the golden chords of hope are broken, How soon we find that dreams we trusted most Are very shadows!

a sweet summer morn,—the lark had just Sprung from the clover bower around her nest, And poured her blithe song to the clouds; the sun Shed his first crimson o'er the dark grey walls Of the old church, and stained the sparkling panes Of ivy-covered windows. The damp grass, That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves,