THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
75
Ah! never words can be so sweet
As silence which itself betrays.
Yes, love has happy hours, which rise
O'er earth as over Paradise.
Hours which o'er life's worst darkness fling
Colours as from an angel's wing,
Which gild the common, soothe the drear,
Bring heaven down to earth's cold sphere;
But never has it such an hour
As in its first unspoken power.
No hue has faded from its bloom,
No light has fallen from its plume—
No after-fear, no common care,
Has weighed on its enchanted air.
Mortality forgets its thrall;
It stands a thing apart from all—
