THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
25
A rugged pallet which was laid
Upon the floor of stone,
Thro' whose dark chinks the night winds play'd
With low, perpetual moan;
A death's head telling from the wall—
"Thy heart beats high—but this ends all!"
A crucifix, a pictured saint,
With thin worn lip and colours faint,
All whereon youth loves not to dwell,—
Were gathered in that gloomy cell.
I said, 'twas sad to see such head
Laid lowly in so rude a bed;
Eyes, long accustomed to unclose
Where sighed the lute, where breathed the rose,
Not for the lack of state or gold,
But for the hist'ry which it told.
