Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/34

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A rugged pallet which was laid Upon the floor of stone, Thro' whose dark chinks the night winds play'd   With low, perpetual moan; A death's head telling from the wall— "Thy heart beats high—but this ends all!" A crucifix, a pictured saint, With thin worn lip and colours faint, All whereon youth loves not to dwell,— Were gathered in that gloomy cell. I said, 'twas sad to see such head Laid lowly in so rude a bed; Eyes, long accustomed to unclose Where sighed the lute, where breathed the rose, Not for the lack of state or gold, But for the hist'ry which it told.