Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/92

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Mark the last ray, catch the last breath, Till the grave sets its sign of death! This was 's fate!—They laid The maiden underneath the shade Of a green cypress,—and that hour The tree was withered, and stood bare! The spring brought leaves to other trees, But never other leaf grew there! It stood, 'mid others flourishing, A blighted, solitary thing. The summer sun shone on that tree, When shot a vessel o'er the sea— When sprang a warrior from the prow— ! by the stately brow.