Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/115

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They raised the white marble, a shrine for her slumbers, Whose memories remain, when the summers depart; There a lute was engraven, and more than its numbers, The strings that were broken appealed to the heart.

The bride brought her wreath of the orange-flowers hither, And cast the sweet buds from her tresses of gold; Like her in their earliest beauty to wither, Like her in their sunshine of hope to grow cold.

The wild winds and waters together bewailing, Perpetual mourners lamented her doom; Still sadness amid nature's sounds is prevailing, Ah! what is all nature but one general tomb?