Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/138

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A feeling pure and holy as the flame The vestal virgin kindles, fresh as flowers The spring has but just coloured, innocent As the young dove, and changeless as the faith The martyr seals in blood. 'Tis beautiful This picture, but it wakes no sympathy. . Next time, Alvine, my pencil shall but give Existence to the memory of love's truth. . Do you recall a tale you told me once, Of the forsaken Nymph that Paris left For new love and ambition; at his death He bade them bear him to Enone's arms? She never had forgotten him: her heart, Which beat so faithfully, became his pillow; She closed his eyes, and pardoned him and died!