THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
17
But now his inmost heart was stirred;
He rose at his sweet sovereign's word:
A word to whose low tones were given
All he dreamed music was in heaven.
Ah! love and song are but a dream,
A flower's faint shade on life's dark stream.
He sang—he loved; though heart and strain
Alike might love and sing in vain.
Looks not the lover, nor the bard,
Beyond the present's sweet reward;
Enough to feel the heart is full
With hopes that charm, and dreams that lull.
One such impassioned hour is worth
A thousand common days of earth;
They know not how intense the beating
Of hearts where love and song are meeting.
C
