Page:The Literary Souvenir for 1825.pdf/92



Of the light cap, while the soft air Ruffled the curls of raven hair, And parted them enough to show The forehead's height of mountain snow. But he has left his train behind,— A lover's step is on the wind;— And he is by the maiden's side, Whose eye is drooped, as if to hide How joy has lighted it; she lent Like one of those sweet visions sent To the young bard, when tones that weep From leaf to flower have lulled his sleep. In that Italian gallery, where The painter and the sculptor share Their gift of beauty, stands a form Just like hers, only not so warm With blushes, but the same soft eye Seeking the ground;—just such a sigh Upon the parted lips;—so prest The small hands on the throbbing breast. The same bowed attitude, so meek! Oh, misery, that love should seek A temple made so pure, so fair, To leave his wreck and ruin there! ", my own ;"—she felt The words upon her flushed cheek melt: She met his radiant eyes—to-night Surely some cloud is on their light;—