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THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
Why should a thought, if me to grieve,
Be left upon thy mind?
I would not have thy memory dwell
Upon one thought of pain;
And sad it must be the farewell
Of one who loved in vain.
Farewell! thy course is in the sun,
First of the young and brave;
For me,—my race is nearly run,
And its goal is the grave.
There was a sadness in the words,
There was a memory on the chords,
