THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
73
Oh! speak not now—it mocks my heart;
How can hope live when love is o'er?
I only feel that we must part;
I only know—we meet no more!
Never that youthful Moor had lent
The plaining lute o'er which he bent
More sweetness than he gave those chords—
The lady hath not heard the words.
Upon her cheek the rose is bright,
Her eyes are lit with inward light;
Leoni's stately step is near,
What other music can she hear?
Her heart that distant sound has stirr'd,
Ere others but its echo heard.
