Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/213

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A crimson blush and tearful lids belied Her light tone, as she bade him not forget So soon his former friends. But the next morn Were other tears than those sweet ones that come Of the full heart's o'erflowings. He was given, The loved, the wanderer, to their prayers at last; But he was now so changed, there was no trace Left of his former self; the glow of health, Of youth, was gone, and in his sallow cheek And faded eye decay sat visible;— All felt that he was sinking to the grave. He wandered like a ghost around; would lean, For hours, and watch the river; or would lie Beneath some aged tree, and hear the birds Singing so cheerfully; and with faint step Would sometimes try the mountain side. He loved