Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/153

144

Her love betrayed, another flower Withering before a blight.

Look down within the silent grave; How much of breath and bloom Have wasted,—passion's sacrifice Offered to the lone tomb.

Look on her hour of solitude, How many bitter cares Belie the smile with which the lip Would sun the wound it bears.

Mark this sweet face! oh, never blush Has past o'er one more fair, And never o'er a brighter brow Has wandered raven hair.