Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/240



rests a shade above yon town, A dark funereal shroud: 'Tis not the tempest hurrying down, 'Tis not a summer cloud.

The smoke that rises on the air Is as a type and sign; A shadow flung by the despair Within those streets of thine.

That smoke shuts out the cheerful day, The sunset's purple hues,