82
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
She came—the purple evening air
Grew as her sweet face shone more fair;
She came—the flowers beneath her feet
Sprang up amid the grass more sweet.
Leoni kneels more graceful far
Than in the morning pomp of war.
Dust—paleness—blood—a charm confer;
Irene felt they were for her.
Such service might the proudest move,
And gratitude excuses love.
With queenly step, but eye that bent
Too conscious on the earth beneath;
Herself she led him to the tent
Where hung the victor's laurel wreath.
Herself unclasped the bands of steel,
Herself unbound the armed heel;
