THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
53
But he who wakes from such a dream,
Wakes never more to dream again;
The hues have died on life's dull stream,
Which seeks that earlier light in vain.
But who e'er turned from beauty's ray
For fear of future shade;
Or who e'er flung a rose away
Because that rose might fade.
It was a new-born joy to watch
Those blue eyes sink beneath his own;
The colour of the blush to catch,
The colour which his gaze had thrown
Upon a cheek, else pale and fair
As lilies in the summer air.
Amenaïde sat watching by,
With kindled cheek and flashing eye;
