Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/348

The minstrel-lute! oh, touch it not,
    Or weary destiny is thine!
Thy life a twilight's haunted dream—
    Thou, victim, at an idol's shrine.

Thy breath but lives on others' lips—
    Thy hope, a thing beyond the grave,—
Thy heart, bare to the vulture's beak—
    Thyself a bound and barter'd slave.
And yet a dangerous charm o'er all,
    A bright but ignis-fatuus flame,
Luring thee with a show of power,
    Dazzling thee with a blaze of fame.

It is to waste on careless hearts
    The throbbing music of thine own;