Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/263

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Tempest winds rush fierce along, Bearing yet a sound of song; Music's on the tempest's wing, Wafting thee, young ! Pillowed on a lotus flower, Gathered in a summer hour, Rides he o'er the mountain wave Which would be a tall ship's grave! At his back his bow is slung, Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung,— Bees born with the buds of spring, Yet with each a deadly sting;— Grasping in his infant hand Arrows in their silken band, Each made of a signal flower, Emblem of its varied power;