Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/43

Rh

In our own gallery, never bent More graceful, more magnificent; Ne’er look’d the hero, or the king, More nobly than the youth who now, As if soul-centred in my song, Was leaning on a galley’s prow. He spoke not when the other spoke, His heart was all too full for praise; But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine, Which sank beneath their burning gaze. Mine sank—but yet I felt the thrill Of that look burning on me still. I heard no words that others said— Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh. My hand kept wandering on my lute, In music, but unconsciously