10
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
Both had their grief, whose memory throws
A deeper charm around repose.
She knew the worth of quiet hours,
Past true and loving hearts among,
Whose history might be writ on flowers,
Or only chronicled in song.
Methinks, were it my lot to choose,
As my lot it will never be,
I'd colour life with those same hues
That, lady! coloured life for thee.
Thou, to whom life enough was known—
The moon-lit bower, the court, the throne;
The heart that maketh its own snare,
Passion and power, and grief and care;
Till the soul, saddened and subdued,
Rejoiced in haunted solitude.
