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THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
Together, poor bird, will pine
Over beauty and hope's decline;
Yet I'll envy in pitying thee:
Never may the months restore
The sweet spring they brought before
To me—but they will to thee!
The lute was hushed—but soon again
The singer's voice took up the strain.
One word, although that word may pass
Almost neglected by,
With no more care than what the glass
Bears of a passing sigh:
