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SONG OF THE IMPROVISATRICE.
THERE's a balm on the air, and it drifts along
'Tis night, and the clouds, with their gorgeous dyes, Have melted away in the pearl-blue skies ; 'Tis night, and the moon from her shadowy land Has girdled the sea with a silver band; Yet sorrowful strains o'er my bosom sweep, Till my
heart is full, and my eyes must weep; For I miss a voice with its music tone, And murmur in sadness, Alone, alone !
Alone, all alone! I am thinking now
My soul was dark, and a wild unrest,
Thou hast gone from me now, and I will not tell
'Tis night on the mountain — 'tis night on the sea :
O! Bury me not in the sunless tomb,
When Death in its chain has bound me; Let me not sleep where the shadows loom,
In the stifled air around me; Where the bones of the scarce-remembered dead Keep a ghastly watch round my coffin bed!
O, bury me not ’mid the ceaseless hum
of the city's wild commotion, Where the steps of a thoughtless crowd might come,
Like the waves of a troubled ocean. In the eye of love should a tear-drop start, 'Twould crush it back on the swollen heart!
But bury me out in the wild, wild wood,
Where the sunlit leaves are dancing, Where the rills leap out with a merry shout,
And the brooks in the light are glancing ; Let my bed be made by the fond and true, Who can bear to weep when I'm shut from view.
In the forest home in the wild wood home
With the arching limbs above me,
To my grave, like dear friends that love me,
and fair; I should know that the blossoms I loved were there.