Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/242

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And worse—'twas but a moment's pain The heathen altar gave, But we give years,—our idol, Gain, Demands a living grave!

How precious is the little one, Before his mother's sight, With bright hair dancing in the sun, And eyes of azure light!

He sleeps as rosy as the south, For summer days are long; A prayer upon the little mouth, Lull'd by his nurse's song.

Love is around him, and his hours Are innocent and free;