THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
61
When youth's own force is on the blow,
Its keenness in the pain.
She gazed, although she knew not why,
Where ocean seemed another sky.
The moon looked down upon the deep,
Till in that deep it seemed to be;
Scarce might the eye the image keep
Of which was sky, and which was sea.
But soft! above the glittering tide
Black shadows in their silence glide;
They are not from the heavens above,
They keep the moonlight from the wave;
Slowly the far-off phantoms move,
And bring the darkness of the grave.
