78
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
With white plume dancing o'er the crest,
With spur on heel, and spear in rest,
And sword impatient of its light,
A sun that reddens into night.
To feel the energy of strife,
The life that is so much of life,
The pulse's quickened beat—the eye,
Whose dark light kindles to defy.
By heaven it is a glorious pride
To lead the stormy battle tide.
Aye, let the crimson banner spread
So soon to wear a darker red—
Let the proud trumpet wake the air
As victory's sounding wing were there:
It is in death and danger's hour
That most existence feels its power.
