THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
43
The past, to which she turned, grew dim,
How could she think, and not of him?
Oh! sweet and sudden fire that springs
With but a look to light its wings;
How false to say thou needest time
The bright ascent of hope to climb;
A star thou art, that may not be
Reckoned by dull astronomy!
Henceforth Irene's heart must keep
A treasure!—silent, still, and deep.
A torture!—no one Love hath known,
Only the lovely and the lone.
His very favourites but possess
Gleams of unquiet happiness.
Love's gifts are like the vein of gold
That intersects earth's darker mould;
