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THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
Only the pang of death can tell
That of the words—we meet no more.
He moved not, spoke not, but he grew
More death-like in his pallid hue:
He hid his face, he could not bear
To think of that young heart's despair.
Whate'er his lot, her's must not be
The same in mutual misery.
No, he would seek and bear her home,
And watch o'er every hour to come.
In look or word, she should not guess
His depths of silent wretchedness.
Let her be happy—he would make
His heart the ruin for her sake.
At length he slept—the heavy sleep
