16
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
They mingled with the fountain-stream—
It was too sweet, too sad a dream.
"What," said she, "is the singer mute?
Come young Azalio, take thy lute,
And tell me of those ancient days
Thou dost so love to sing and praise.
Hast thou no legend, minstrel mine,
Of my own old heroic line;
Some tale of Cyprus, ere her strand
Was won to the Venetian's land?
Ah! ocean's loved and loveliest ark,
Thou did'st not always own St. Mark!
Hast thou no chronicle to tell
Of that fair land I love so well?"
A pale and silent youth was he
Who took the lute upon his knee.
