THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
55
Ah! call it by some dearer name—
The effort made by maiden shame
Its agony of soul to hide,
It is too deep, too soft for pride.
Upon her cheek a burning red,
But richly beautiful, is shed;
So kindles on the funeral pyre
The flame by perfume fed:—
How few remember that sweet fire
Is rising o'er the dead.
And clouds grow crimson with the glow
Of the poor human dust below.—
The light which that young cheek illumed
Came from all precious things consumed;
Hopes, dreams, ere those bright hues depart,
Sent from the ashes of the heart.
