 | The Vow of the Peacock, and Other Poems |  |
The silvery sigh of that soft strain
Had lulled the lady and her train;
And she—her thoughts were far away—
Gone back unto that earlier day,
When heart and hope alike were young.
The tears within her eyelids sprung,
They mingled with the fountain-stream—
It was too sweet, too sad a dream.
“What,” said she, “is the singer mute?
Come young Azalio, take thy lute,
And tell me of those ancient days
Thou dost so love to sing and praise.
Hast thou no legend, minstrel mine,
Of my own old heroic line;
Some tale of Cyprus, ere her strand
Was won to the Venetian's land?
Ah! ocean's loved and loveliest ark,
Thou did'st not always own St. Mark!
Hast thou no chronicle to tell
Of that fair land I love so well?”
Had lulled the lady and her train;
And she—her thoughts were far away—
Gone back unto that earlier day,
When heart and hope alike were young.
The tears within her eyelids sprung,
16
It was too sweet, too sad a dream.
“What,” said she, “is the singer mute?
Come young Azalio, take thy lute,
And tell me of those ancient days
Thou dost so love to sing and praise.
Hast thou no legend, minstrel mine,
Of my own old heroic line;
Some tale of Cyprus, ere her strand
Was won to the Venetian's land?
Ah! ocean's loved and loveliest ark,
Thou did'st not always own St. Mark!
Hast thou no chronicle to tell
Of that fair land I love so well?”
A pale and silent youth was he
Who took the lute upon his knee.
But now his inmost heart was stirred;
He rose at his sweet sovereign's word:
A word to whose low tones were given
All he dreamed music was in heaven.
Ah! love and song are but a dream,
A flower's faint shade on life's dark stream.
He sang—he loved; though heart and strain
Alike might love and sing in vain.
Looks not the lover, nor the bard,
Beyond the present's sweet reward;
Enough to feel the heart is full
With hopes that charm, and dreams that lull.
Who took the lute upon his knee.
17
He rose at his sweet sovereign's word:
A word to whose low tones were given
All he dreamed music was in heaven.
Ah! love and song are but a dream,
A flower's faint shade on life's dark stream.
He sang—he loved; though heart and strain
Alike might love and sing in vain.
Looks not the lover, nor the bard,
Beyond the present's sweet reward;
Enough to feel the heart is full
With hopes that charm, and dreams that lull.
One such impassioned hour is worth
A thousand common days of earth;
They know not how intense the beating
Of hearts where love and song are meeting.
A thousand common days of earth;
They know not how intense the beating
Of hearts where love and song are meeting.
18
He took the lute—he gave it words,
And breathed his spirit on the chords.
The world, save one sweet face, was dim;
And that shone o'er his lute and him.
And breathed his spirit on the chords.
The world, save one sweet face, was dim;
And that shone o'er his lute and him.
| The Vow of the Peacock, and Other Poems | |