Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/348

Rh

The minstrel-lute! oh, touch it not, Or weary destiny is thine! Thy life a twilight's haunted dream— Thou, victim, at an idol's shrine.

Thy breath but lives on others' lips— Thy hope, a thing beyond the grave,— Thy heart, bare to the vulture's beak— Thyself a bound and barter'd slave. And yet a dangerous charm o'er all, A bright but ignis-fatuus flame, Luring thee with a show of power, Dazzling thee with a blaze of fame.

It is to waste on careless hearts The throbbing music of thine own;