THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
69
Where a sweet sadness woke the string,
Till sorrow's self might claim the tone.
'Tis strange, the happy and the young,
At whose feet life its flowers hath flung—
Whose future like a dream appears,
Yet only ask the lute for tears.
Instinct of sorrow, that prepares
Its sympathy before it shares.
He took his lute—his voice was low,
So lapsing waters softly flow
Amid the drooping flowers around,
As if they turned their sighs to sound.
Ah, magic! of a voice that seems
To haunt the soul with hopes and dreams;
Which gives to minstrel words the power
And passion of their early hour,
