Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/22

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I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love She was a long, last farewell taking;— That, from her pale and parched lips, Her latest, wildest song was breaking.

SAPPHO'S SONG. , my lute!—and would that I   Had never waked thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh, And fever has breathed in thy words. Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute? I should have been the wretch I am, Had every chord of thine been mute. It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; 