THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
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And murmured broken thanks the while,
The soft blush brightening with a smile;
Then bade him rest. Ah, looks like those
Were never heralds of repose.
He slept not; but the dreams that steep
Such sweet unrest are more than sleep.
Night came—the deep and purple time
Of summer in a southern clime.
The curtains of the tent were swayed
As the night wind among them played;
And he could see the distant sky,
Where stars in crowds uncounted lie:
And all seemed bright excepting one;
He fancied he could see it pale,
As if forsaken by its sun,
Its golden light began to fail.
