THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
13
The Queen of Cypress dwelt,—the last
That ever ruled that lovely isle;
The sceptre from her hand she cast,
And Venice wore her crown the while,
Whose winged lion loved to sweep
Sole master of his bride—the deep.
Her history is upon her face;
Titian hath kept its pensive grace.
Divinest art, that can restore
The lovely and the loved of yore!
Her cheek is pale, her mouth is wrought
With lines that tell of care and thought,
But sweet, and with a smile, that seems
To brood above a world of dreams.
And with an eye of that clear blue,
Like heaven when stars are shining through,
