Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/58

46

Of agony—the cold death sweat Is on his face—his teeth are set— His bursting eyes are glazed and still: The drug has done its work of ill. Alas! for her who watched each breath, The cup her love had mixed bore—death!

!—when next morning came For the first time I heard thy name! !—how each ear-pulse drank The more than music of that tone! !—how I sighed that name, As breathing it, made it mine own!