THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
19
But victory is a chained thing,
Beneath her haughty lion's wing.
One eve the sun was redly shining,
Crimson, as it is now declining,
When e'en the dark canals were bright
A moment with that rosy light;
How glorious did its colours sweep,
As if in triumph o'er the deep.
One wandered there, whose gazing eye
Deserved to mirror such a sky.
He of the laurel and the lyre,
Whose lip was song, whose heart was fire—
The gentle Petrarch—he whose fame
Was worship of one dearest name.
The myrtle planted on his grave,
Gave all the laurel ever gave;
