THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
27
And now 'tis deadly pale in hue;
On the wan forehead stands the dew!
The small white hands are clenched and wrung:
She wakes! how wild a look is flung
From those blue eyes which, strange and wide,
Glance, like the deer's, from side to side!
She listens; but she cannot hear,
So loudly beats her heart with fear.
Gradual she knows the lonely cell—
She hears the midnight's bell;
She sees the moonlight on the pane,
And, weary, drops her head again.
Alas! the steps of that young queen
Upon life's rudest path have been.
An orphan! ah, despair is heard
In but the echo of that word!
