Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/187

Then, changing from the soft slow step,
    Her white feet bounded on the wind
Like gleaming silver, and her hair
    Like a dark banner swept behind;
Or with her sweet voice, sweet like a bird's
    When it pours forth its first song in spring,
The one like an echo to the other,
    She answered the sigh of her soft lute-string,
And with eyes that darkened in gentlest tears,
    Like the dewy light in the dark-eyed dove,
Would she sing those sorrowing songs that breathe
    Some history of unhappy love.
"Yes, thou art mine!" Mandalla said,—
    "I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart;
"I taught thee its tenderness, now I must teach
    "Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part;