Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/57

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Those passionate complaints that wring A woman’s heart, yet never bring Redress. She called upon each tree To witness her lone constancy! She called upon the silent boughs, The temple of her ’s vows Of happiness too dearly bought! Then wept again. At length she thought Upon the forest sorcerer’s gift— The last, lone hope that love had left! She took the cup and kissed the brim; Mixed the dark spell, and gave it him To pledge his once dear ’s name! He drank it. Instantly the flame Ran through his veins: one fiery throb Of bitter pain—one gasping sob