THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
9
What proud deed of coming fight
Bares the blade of yonder knight?
Dare I give the colours words,—
Ask their music from the chords?
In sooth it was as fair a court
As ever in a morn of May,
Amid the greenwood's glad resort,
Made a perpetual holiday.
'Tis true she was a queen no more,
But still her robe the ermine bore;
And in her hand, and in her eye,
Was that which spoke of courts gone by:
For Catherine looked what she had been,
At once the beauty and the queen.
