72
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
In mercy, gentle Heaven, recall
Only the memory of the past.
Ah! never did the first June flower
Bare purer bosom to the bee,
Than that which yielded to love's power,
And gave its sweetest wealth to thee.
'Twas a new life—the earth—the sky—
Seemed to grow fairer for thy sake;
But this is gone—oh, destiny!
My heart is withered—let it break!
My garden will lie desolate;
My flowers will die; my birds will pine:
All I once loved I now shall hate;—
With thee changed every thing of mine.
