THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
97
Whene'er I sang, our songs they seemed
To paint thee only in the lay;
Of only thee at night I dreamed,
Of only thee I thought by day.
The wind that wandered round our towers
Brought echoes of thy voice to me;
Our old hall's solitary hours
Were peopled with sweet thoughts of thee.
And yet we part—this very hour!
Ah!—only if my beating heart
Could break for both—there is no power
Could force me with your love to part.
There is no shape that pain could take,
No ill that would not welcome be,
H
