68
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
O'er which the frequent blushes came,
Like night lit up with sudden flame;
And with a voice!—such tones may dwell
Where the wave whispers to the shell,
Half song, half sigh—such music hung
On that young Moor's enchanted tongue.
He sat apart—around his head
Was bound a shawl of deepest red,
Which hid his brow, and gave his eye
A wilder light with its fierce dye;
A foreign lute was in his hand—
Small, dark—his southern sun had tann'd
All colours, those, the soft and frail,
Into an olive, clear and pale.
She marked the lute, and bade him sing
One of those songs so much his own;
