# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Vow of the Peacock First Canto

THE
VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
The present! it is but a drop from the sea In the mighty depths of eternity. I love it not—it taketh its birth Too near to the dull and the common earth. It is worn with our wants, and steeped with our cares, The dreariest aspect of life it wears; Its griefs are so fresh, its wrongs are so near, That its evils of giant shape appear; The curse of the serpent, the sweat of the brow, Lie heavy on all things surrounding us now.
Filled with repining, and envy, and strife, What is the present—the actual of life? The actual! it is as the clay to the soul, The working-day portion of life's wondrous whole! How much it needeth the light and the air To breathe their own being, the beautiful, there! Like the soil that asks for the rain from the sky, And the soft west wind that goes wandering by, E'er the wonderful world within will arise And rejoice in the smile of the summer's soft eyes.
 The present—the actual—were they our all— Too heavy our burthen, too hopeless our thrall; But heaven, that spreadeth o'er all its blue cope, Hath given us memory,—hath given us hope! And redeemeth the lot which the present hath cast, By the fame of the future, the dream of the past.
The future! ah, there hath the spirit its home, In its distance is written the glorious to come. The great ones of earth lived but half for their day; The grave was their altar, the far-off their way. Step by step hath the mind its high empire won; We live in the sunshine of what it hath done.
 The present! it sinketh with sorrow and care, That but for the future, it never could bear; We dwell in its shadow, we see by its light, And to-day trusts to-morrow, it then will be bright.  The maiden who wanders alone by the shore, And bids the wild waters the dear one restore; Yet lingers to listen the lute notes that swell As the evening winds touch the red lips of the shell. She thinks of the time when no longer alone Another will thank those sweet shells for their tone:
They soothed her with music, the soft and the deep, That whispered the winds, and the waves were asleep.
 Such music, hope brings from the future to still Humanity vexed with the presence of ill.
 The past! ah, we owe it a tenderer debt, Heaven's own sweetest mercy is not to forget; Its influence softens the present, and flings A grace, like the ivy, wherever it clings. Sad thoughts are its ministers—angels that keep Their beauty to hallow the sorrows they weep. The wrong, that seemed harsh to our earlier mood, By long years with somewhat of love is subdued;— The grief, that at first had no hope in its gloom, Ah, flowers have at length sprung up over the tomb. The heart hath its twilight, which softens the scene, While memory recalls where the lovely hath been.
It builds up the ruin, restores the grey tower, Till there looks the beauty still from her bower. It leans o'er the fountain, and calls from the wave The naiad that dwelt with her lute in the cave;— It bends by the red rose, and thinketh old songs:— That leaf to the heart of the lover belongs. It clothes the grey tree with the green of its spring, And brings back the music the lark used to sing. But spirits yet dearer attend on the past, When alone, 'mid the shadows the dim hearth has cast; Then feelings come back, that had long lost their tone, And echo the music that once was their own. Then friends, whose sweet friendship the world could divide, Come back with kind greetings, and cling to our side. The book which we loved when our young love was strong;—
An old tree long cherished; a nursery song;— A walk slow and pleasant by field and by wood;— The winding 'mid water-plants of that clear flood, Where lilies, like fairy queens, looked on their glass,— That stream we so loved in our childhood to pass. Oh! world of sweet phantoms, how precious thou art! The past is perpetual youth to the heart.  The past is the poet's,—that world is his own; Thence hath his music its truth and its tone. He calls up the shadows of ages long fled, And light, as life lovely, illumines the dead. And the beauty of time, with wild flowers and green, Shades and softens the world-worn, the harsh and the mean. He lives, he creates, in those long-vanished years— He asks of the present but audience and tears.
Years, years have past along Since the sword, and since the song Made alike the bright and bold— What one wrought—the other told. When the lady in her bower Held her beauty's conscious power; When the knight's wild life was spent Less in castle than in tent; When romance, excitement, strife, Flung the picturesque o'er life.
 Lo, the past yields up an hour To the painter's magic power— Mastered into life and light, Breathing beautiful and bright,— One bright hour in glory dyed Of the old chivalric pride.
With war-music round them poured, With the sunshine on the sword, With the battlemented towers, Crimsoning in the morning hours, Girdled by their southern clime, Stand a group of olden time. They are gathered,—wherefore now? 'Tis the Peacock's noble vow! Vow that binds a knightly faith Sure as love and strong as death.
 Doth that kneeling bright-haired dame Succour or protection claim? Is she wronged, is she forsaken? Wherefore must that vow be taken? What wild tale of old romance Haunteth that bright lady's glance?
What proud deed of coming fight Bares the blade of yonder knight? Dare I give the colours words,— Ask their music from the chords?
In sooth it was as fair a court As ever in a morn of May,  Amid the greenwood's glad resort, Made a perpetual holiday. 'Tis true she was a queen no more, But still her robe the ermine bore; And in her hand, and in her eye, Was that which spoke of courts gone by: For Catherine looked what she had been, At once the beauty and the queen.
Both had their grief, whose memory throws A deeper charm around repose.  She knew the worth of quiet hours, Past true and loving hearts among,  Whose history might be writ on flowers, Or only chronicled in song.  Methinks, were it my lot to choose, As my lot it will never be,  I'd colour life with those same hues That, lady! coloured life for thee. Thou, to whom life enough was known— The moon-lit bower, the court, the throne; The heart that maketh its own snare, Passion and power, and grief and care; Till the soul, saddened and subdued, Rejoiced in haunted solitude.
Youth is too eager, forth it flings Itself upon exulting wings, Which seek the heaven they ask too near— One wild flight ends the bright career; With broken wing and darkened eye, Earth claims again its own to die. No! solitude asks bygone hours Wherewith to fill its silent bowers,— Memories that linger o'er the past, But into softer shadow cast, Like lovely pictures that recall One look, but that most dear of all.  When life's more fierce desires depart, Aware how false and vain they are,—  While youth yet lingers at the heart, And hope, although it looks afar,—
Then takes the lute, its softest tone, It murmurs of emotions gone. Then charms the picture most, it brings So many unforgotten things. Then breathes within the gifted scroll A deeper meaning to the soul,— For that itself hath learnt before The truth and secret of its lore.
 Few know such blessed breathing time As she, whose home beside the sea,  Beneath that lovely summer clime, Seems such a fairy dream to me.  Within a fair Italian hall, Round which an olive wood extends,  With summer for her festival,— For camp and court a few tried friends,
The Queen of Cypress dwelt,—the last That ever ruled that lovely isle;  The sceptre from her hand she cast, And Venice wore her crown the while, Whose winged lion loved to sweep Sole master of his bride—the deep. Her history is upon her face; Titian hath kept its pensive grace.
 Divinest art, that can restore The lovely and the loved of yore! Her cheek is pale, her mouth is wrought With lines that tell of care and thought, But sweet, and with a smile, that seems To brood above a world of dreams. And with an eye of that clear blue, Like heaven when stars are shining through,
The pure, the spiritual, the clear, Whose light is of another sphere. It was an eve when June was calling  The red rose to its summer state, When dew-like tears around are falling—  Such tears as upon pity wait. The woods obscured the crimson west,  Which yet shone through the shadowy screen Like a bright sea in its unrest,  With gold amid the kindling green. But softer lights and colours fall Around the olive-sheltered hall, Which, opening to a garden, made Its own, just slightly broken, shade.  Beneath a marble terrace spread, Veined with the sunset's flitting red.
And lovely plants, in vases, there  Wore colours caught in other skies; Sweet prisoners, such—because so fair,  Made captives for their radiant eyes. And in the centre of that room  A fountain, like an April shower, Brought light—and bore away perfume  To many a pale and drooping flower, That, wearied with the sultry noon, Languished at that sweet water's tune.
 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?"  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.  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.
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.
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
There is a city, that for slaves Has kings, and nations, winds, and waves: St. Mark is conscious of her power, His winged lion marks her tower. But that the bold republic stood, And bought her empire with her blood, The crescent's pale and silver lines Would shine where now the red cross shines.
But victory is a chained thing, Beneath her haughty lion's wing.  One eve the sun was redly shining, Crimson, as it is now declining, When e'en the dark canals were bright A moment with that rosy light; How glorious did its colours sweep, As if in triumph o'er the deep.  One wandered there, whose gazing eye Deserved to mirror such a sky. He of the laurel and the lyre, Whose lip was song, whose heart was fire— The gentle Petrarch—he whose fame Was worship of one dearest name. The myrtle planted on his grave, Gave all the laurel ever gave;
The life that lives in others' breath— Love's last sweet triumph over death. And tell me not of long disdain, Of hope unblest—of fiery pain,— Of lute and laurel vowed in vain.  Of such the common cannot deem; Such love hath an ethereal pride!  I'd rather feed on such a dream, Than win a waking world beside.
 He wandered, lonely, while his gaze Mused o'er the sunset's failing rays; When, lo! he saw a vessel ride, As if in triumph o'er the tide. Amid her sails were green boughs wreathing, And music from her deck was breathing;
And from the mast a banner's fold Flung forth its purple and its gold. Now joy in Venice!—she has brought Glad tidings of a battle fought: The last of a victorious war, She brings them triumph from afar. Yet, further on, the dim and dark, On the horizon hangs a bark; A sad, small speck: o'er which a cloud Hangs heavy, like a funeral shroud;
 While others marked the ship that came From fields of battle and of fame; And told, with loud acclaim, the while, The conquest proud of Candia's isle. The poet lingered last to mark The progress of that lonely bark.
He watched the worn and weary sail; I would that he had told its tale! Then, honoured like a thing divine, I had not dared to make it mine.  Upon that deck a lady stands, The fairest that e'er wrung her hands; Or bowed a radiant brow to weep Over the wide unpitying deep. And leave we Venice to her hour Of festival, and pride, and power, To learn whate'er the cause can be That brings such maiden o'er the sea.
 The Queen of Cyprus is the maid, But banished from her throne and land;  She comes to seek for foreign aid, Against a false and factious band.
Ah, minstrel song hath many wings! From foreign lands its wealth it brings.  And it had brought, o'er sea and sky, The tidings of Leoni's fame,  Till hope and honour seemed to lie Beneath the shadow of his name.  Irene's ear had often heard The glory given to his sword; And when she fled her prison-tower, Ah! such a bird, for such a bower, It was to seek the sea-beat strand Where dwelt the hero and his band; And ask that succour no true knight Ere yet denied to lady bright.
 They landed where a little bay Flung o'er the shelving sands its spray;
And mingled with the rain, which kept Perpetual moan, as if it wept. While winds, amid the hollow caves, Told the sad secrets of the waves.  It was a gloomy night—and, pale, That young queen drew her mourning veil, Which ill could screen that slender form From the rude beating of the storm. A convent reared upon the height, Gave shelter from the closing night. Thankful was that bright head to rest, For charity's sweet sake, their guest.
It was a mournful sight to see  That youthful brow lie down Without its purple canopy,  Without its royal crown;
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.
The youthful sleeper slumbering there, With the pale moonlight in her hair; Her child-like head upon her arm, Cradling the soft cheek, rosy warm; The sweet mouth opening like a flower, Whose perfume fills the midnight hour; Her white hands clasped, as if she kept A vigil even while she slept: Or, as her rest too long delaying, Slumber stole over her while praying. Yet this is not the dreamless sleep That youth should know;—the still, the deep! See, on her cheek th' unquiet red A sudden crimson flush has shed! And now it fades, as colours die, While watching twilight's transient sky.
And now 'tis deadly pale in hue; On the wan forehead stands the dew! The small white hands are clenched and wrung:  She wakes! how wild a look is flung From those blue eyes which, strange and wide, Glance, like the deer's, from side to side! She listens; but she cannot hear, So loudly beats her heart with fear. Gradual she knows the lonely cell— She hears the midnight's bell; She sees the moonlight on the pane, And, weary, drops her head again.
 Alas! the steps of that young queen Upon life's rudest path have been. An orphan! ah, despair is heard In but the echo of that word!
Left in her infancy, alone, On that worst solitude—a throne, Ill suited was that small snow hand To sway the sceptre, or the brand. In truth, the Cypriots need a lord Who curbs a steed, and wears a sword; And a bold chieftain of their line Had victor come from Palestine: Fierce, ruthless, false, the crown he sought, Nor recked how dearly it was bought. Till lately had Irene been In outward state and show a queen! And she had been a toy and tool, To grace each adverse faction's rule. But when the bold usurper's claim Asked royal place, and royal name;
Made captive in a treacherous hour, She pined within a sea-beat tower.  At length a small and faithful band Escape and rescue bravely planned; They set the royal captive free, And bore the maiden o'er the sea! And now the lady comes to ask Of chivalry its glorious task: Aid at the brave Leoni's hand, To win her back her father's land. Three days have passed, for she was worn With all that slender frame had borne; But tidings came that Venice gave A general welcome to the brave, And that a hundred hearts were bent Upon the morrow's tournament.
Leoni, too, had raised his spear, Impatient for the high career, Where deeds of honour would be done, In honour of the triumph won.
 The following morn that sacred shrine Saw toys and gauds unwonted shine. The ivy o'er the lattice hung Back, for a freer light was flung. O'er the grey pallet were unrolled Silks heavy with the weight of gold. The caskets are unlocked, that shew Pearls glittering like untrodden snow: The diamond, like stars at night; The emerald, which has caught the light Of early sunbeams, when they pass Over the dewy morning grass.
The Queen of Cyprus, she has now No empire but her own sweet brow— No other influence than what lies In the deep azure of her eyes. But she who hath such look and mien Is still the hearts' enthroned queen. Her maiden train, with curious care, Knit the rich tresses of her hair; And never king had carved gold Like those bright lengths together rolled, With sunshine gathered in each fold. The velvet robe with gold was laced, And jewels bound the slender waist: They suited well her high degree, And queen-like look and step had she! She saw her graceful shadow fall O'er the small mirror in the wall;
Then like the swan with statelier swell, She past the threshold of her cell. No knight could see that lip and eye, And boon, which they might ask, deny! Thy smile securing thy behest, Go, lady, in thy loveliest.
 The morning! 'tis a glorious time, Recalling to the world again  The Eden of its earlier prime, Ere grief, or care, began their reign. When every bough is wet with dews, Their pure pale lit with crimson hues; Not wan, as those of evening are, But pearls unbraided from the hair Of some young bride who leaves the glow Of her warm cheek upon their snow.
The lark is with triumphant song Singing the rose-touched clouds among: 'Tis there that lighted song has birth, What hath such hymn to do with earth?  Each day doth life again begin, And morning breaks the heart within, Rolling away its clouds of night, Renewing glad the inward light.  Many a head that down had lain, Impatient with its twelve hours' pain, And wishing that the bed it prest, Were, as the grave's, a long last rest, Has sprung again at morning's call, Forgiving, or forgetting all; Lighting the weary weight of thought With colours from the day-break brought,
Reading new promise in the sky, And hearing Hope, the lark on high.
 But what must morning be to those Who sleep impatient of repose, The hand upon the spear and shield Which wait the morrow's glorious field. The tournament, where Venice asks All who delight in honour's tasks. The Count Leoni sees his band With helm on head and spear in hand, And proud, he marked the sunbeams shine Over the long embattled line, And said, exulting, "They are mine!" No chief were he who could have eyed Such soldiers without chieftain's pride!
Plumed, and full armed from head to heel, They sat like statues carved in steel. He of that body was the soul, To lead, to curb, inspire, control.
 And wherefore does the warrior wait? His steed is pawing at the gate,— His page is with his helmet near,— He has kissed his cousin's farewell tear.— He lingers—for a dwarf that seems More like a creature framed in dreams, 'Mid midnight's strange fantastic strife, Than being formed of actual life, Has prayed him for a moment there To listen to a lady's prayer. And ever true knight owns the claim Whose suit is urged in woman's name.
Stately as night, and fair as day, The lovely lady made her way Through armed ranks, that bent to her As if she were a conqueror: Then bending on her graceful knee  Her lowly suit she made, And prayed him of his courtesy  To give an orphan aid; And leave the tourney for the far, And fatal scenes of actual war.
The colour kindled on his cheek, A moment and he could not speak;  Then silence hastily broke he, And said, "Oh, fairest dame!  Henceforth my sword is vowed to thee, And asks no other fame.
I pray thee rise, it were more meet For me to kneel before thy feet, And vow to thee, as at a shrine, That heart, and hand, and sword, are thine." Hope kindled in Irene's eyes, Yet from her knee she would not rise, But spoke again: "If true art thou, Take thou the Peacock's sacred vow." Her listening maidens caught the word, And forth they brought the royal bird; The glorious bird, to whom is given The colour of an eastern heaven.
Of all the fowls that sweep the air None with the Peacock may compare; Not only for its loveliness, Though queens in vain might ask such dress,
But o'er those painted plumes are cast So many shadows from the past,— Those gorgeous ships which wont to bring The wealth of Ophir to that king Who ransacked earth and swept the main, To find their pleasures were in vain. Or from those purple feathers peep Faces which they have lulled to sleep, Cheeks of pale beauty, and dark eyes Wherein their eastern heaven lies; But tearful in their sleep, with dreams Of unforgotten mountain streams. Ah, childhood! lovely art thou, seen When care and passion intervene, And thou dost smile as smiles a star,— Calm, happy, undisturbed, but far.
And such a memory thou hast stirred Within my heart, enchanted bird! I see a little garden nook, It has a lorn deserted look; Conscious of better days, and pride To its neglected state denied: Yet is it lovely, or to me Lovely at least it seemed to be.  Laurels stood shining in the sun— A golden green, half light, half gloom;  Some early flowers to seed had run, But some were only just in bloom; And straggling over path and bed, The careless ones shone white and red. Spoilt children they, who wander on Till summer and themselves are gone.
But in the midst a plot of grass Was to the sunshine as a glass; It had been turf, but weeds and flowers Had sprung through long-neglected hours.
There stood an aged trunk, 'twas grey With moss and nature's slow decay. Yet there a peacock used to come He chose it for his summer home; A brave bright bird, whose graceful head Stooped daily to my hand for bread. Then would he take his glittering stand, While to the sun his plumes expand. So from th' empurpled waves arise Such colours when the dolphin dies. I loved it for its beauty's blaze, I love it now for by-gone days.
Whene'er I see that bird it brings A world of long-forgotten things,— Romantic fancies, boldly planned, Her childhood is a fairy land, And scorns to work by common means The fair woof of its future scenes; Hopes which, like dew-drops o'er the plain, The very sunshine turns to rain; Affections long since past away.— But this is vain—on with my lay.
 The golden dish is richly chased On which the royal bird is placed; And lovely are the bearers twain, Who there the gorgeous weight sustain.  The one is fair, as that meek flower The lily, hiding in her bower;
Fair as the north, whose sky and snows Give softest white and purest rose.  The other—such soft shadows weave The sweet shapes of a southern eve. The fringed lashes darkly bend Where moon-beams and where meteors blend,— Eyes, full of danger and delight, Where softness and where fire unite.
 Before the armed knight they stand, Then flashes forth his eager brand;  So help him God! as he shall fight  For honour and his lady's right;  So help him God! as he shall be  True to his faith, his sword, and thee. She watched him while he swore—that queen So fair a knight had never seen—
The past, to which she turned, grew dim, How could she think, and not of him?  Oh! sweet and sudden fire that springs With but a look to light its wings; How false to say thou needest time The bright ascent of hope to climb; A star thou art, that may not be Reckoned by dull astronomy! Henceforth Irene's heart must keep A treasure!—silent, still, and deep. A torture!—no one Love hath known, Only the lovely and the lone. His very favourites but possess Gleams of unquiet happiness.  Love's gifts are like the vein of gold  That intersects earth's darker mould;
The gold is gained, the coin is wrought;  But how much trouble has it brought? Alas! not her's the only gaze Which too deep tenderness betrays; Nor her's the only ear that hung On the war music of his tongue. A girl behind Leoni stands, His scarf is in her trembling hands; Scarce hath she power to bid each fold Hang graceful with its blue and gold; She droops beneath her shrouding veil, Her lip, her cheek, are touched with pale; A fear hath entered at her heart,— Take life, so that fear also part. His ward and cousin she has grown  Within Leoni's halls;
A flower which no rude wind hath blown,  O'er which no shadow falls. So gradual has the maiden sprung  To womanhood's sweet prime; So soft the shadow round her flung  By that enchanted time, That still she seems the child to be  Who wandered at his side, Beneath the summer's greenwood tree  And by the sea's blue tide; And heaping treasure for her bower Of singing shell and breathing flower. But on her brow there is a shade Scarcely for early April made: But 'tis the heart that marks the hour; And hers, in passion and in power,
Has long outgrown the simple fears And buoyant hopes of childhood's years. Love gathereth knowledge; and that tree Hath good and ill in its degree; With many an unaccustomed guest It stirs the spirit in its rest. Emotions generous, deep, and strong, That bear the fevered soul along; Shame, hidden in a rosy cloud, By it's own sweet self disallowed; Fancies that make their own distress, And doubts that question happiness. Love brings all these—he cannot bring Again its freshness to the spring.
 Orphan, or ere her footsteps knew The weary earth they were to tread;
The love which with her stature grew, Caught something mournful from the dead; And her young spirit quenched its tone Too much with dwelling on the gone. She sat beside her mother's grave, And thought of him, the loved, the brave; He who had been the only guide Of his betrothed and orphan bride. Thus had she grown, a lonely child Like the wood-flower, as sweet and wild; The darling and delight of all Within the old ancestral hall; None looked beyond the brow the while, Which still was sweet with childhood's smile.
How often has the maiden felt, When at Leoni's feet she knelt,
Unquiet thoughts her joy disturb, And shadowy fears she could not curb; Still in her soul the whisper came, "I love him—is his love the same?" Love's instinct prompt at once to reach All that experience soon must teach;  Then flinging down the chain and gem He deemed she must delight to wear:  How could she care for toys like them; How could he think that she could care?  Then would he raise the golden head Whose bright hair drooped around his knee;  And question what she wished instead, And promised what she wished should be.  And, like a petted child, carest The eyes which she had downcast kept,
Grew yet more tearful thus addrest, In wonder wherefore she had wept.  She did not know herself; so much Does the young heart itself deceive:  If love—she did not dream it such,— She only felt that she must grieve;  And marvelled with a sweet surprise Tears were so ready in her eyes.  She blushed them off, and put on mirth; The mask youth ever wears to hide  The deeper feelings that have birth In shame, in passion, and in pride.
 At the first look Leoni turned Upon that fair and stranger dame,
Her inmost heart within her burned, A light upon her darkness came. Past, present, future, seemed to fling Their weight upon that moment's wing; A shadow fell upon the air, The presence of one great despair.
Small time has she for thought; to day The courteous hostess she must play. The gathered bands are glad to hear Of nobler warfare for their spear. All kindle in one mutual flame, For such a cause and such a dame; All crowd within that ancient hall To share the parting festival. To-morrow with the morning breeze, Their gallant fleet will cut the seas.
The banquet shall be spread to-night; The cup shall circle now  For that fair lady and her knight, And for "the Peacock's Vow."
 Amenaïde hath ta'en her seat Beside the radiant stranger's feet;  Whose purple canopy on high— The golden step and chair;  But most that regal form and eye Her regal state declare.  Leoni serves her on his knee, But, with a fairy smile,  She says such homage must not be, And she his guest the while.  With softest look and courteous word She bids him carve the royal bird.
He carves it with a curious skill, And when his task was done,  The little flame was burning still That from its bright beak shone.  He pledged the purple cup that night, His soul drank brighter wine  Than ever filled a cup with light Or made the hour divine;  As if its passing shade had caught All treasures that a life had sought.  Ah, no—a deeper joy he drank Than ever floated on the bowl,  A joy, that coloured while it sank In sweet enchantment on the soul. The rosy thraldom of the vine Would vanish with the morning's shine;
But he who wakes from such a dream, Wakes never more to dream again;  The hues have died on life's dull stream, Which seeks that earlier light in vain.  But who e'er turned from beauty's ray For fear of future shade;  Or who e'er flung a rose away Because that rose might fade.  It was a new-born joy to watch Those blue eyes sink beneath his own;  The colour of the blush to catch, The colour which his gaze had thrown  Upon a cheek, else pale and fair As lilies in the summer air.
Amenaïde sat watching by, With kindled cheek and flashing eye;
She saw before the rest,—to her Her own heart was interpreter.— She knew the fixed, yet timid look, As if the soul some treasure took;—
 She knew the soft, yet eager tone; So had she looked, so had she spoken:  The past now made the present known By many a sad familiar token.  Ah! those who love can well divine The slightest look, the merest sign.—  And she was gay,—though love is strong, Yet pride is stronger still;  She felt, but shewed not of her wrong— It mastered not her will. Strange! her young heart could have such power Upon its most impassioned hour.
Ah! call it by some dearer name— The effort made by maiden shame Its agony of soul to hide, It is too deep, too soft for pride.
Upon her cheek a burning red, But richly beautiful, is shed;  So kindles on the funeral pyre The flame by perfume fed:—  How few remember that sweet fire Is rising o'er the dead. And clouds grow crimson with the glow Of the poor human dust below.— The light which that young cheek illumed Came from all precious things consumed; Hopes, dreams, ere those bright hues depart, Sent from the ashes of the heart.
The stranger queen had lifted up In her small hands the golden cup, And drank her timid thanks to all Gathered within Leoni's hall; But he—he saw that azure eye Grow softer as it passed him by, And indistinct her voice became Beneath the music of his name. She left the hall, she past like light; So in the east comes sudden night. She past—so graceful glides the swan Some lone and lovely lake upon.  And sought her chamber,—it was fair With perfume on the midnight hour;  Amenaïde, with graceful care, Had made it like a fairy's bower.
She placed within the fragrant light— Then bade her weary guest good-night. A moment more and she was gone: Both were so glad to be alone.
But soon Irene's eyelids close 'Mid those sweet visions which repose, Gathering their fragrant life by day From violet bells and hawthorn spray— I hold that in the noontide hours Sweet dreams are treasured up in flowers. But for Amenaïde, her head Reposed not on its silken bed; Ah! what have eyes to do with sleep That seek, and vainly seek, to weep? No dew on the dark lash appears,— The heart is all too full for tears.
Awhile she paced her stately room— She felt its heat, she felt its gloom— The tapestry o'er the walls that hung Flung shadows it had never flung; She loathed each old familiar thing,—  Her missal with its golden band; The lute, whose scarcely silent string  Yet trembled with her last command; The song she sang last night—such song Would never more to her belong; Her books, her flowers—o'er all was cast The bitter presence of the past.
The silken curtains back she drew, And back the moonlit lattice threw; In came the soft and fragrant air,— In came the moonlight soft and fair,—
It soothed her not,—that tranquil sky Seemed as it said, "despair, and die!" She gazed upon the lovely night,— She sickened at its unshared light. Oh! that a single cloud had thrown Its shadow sharing with her own. Ah! loving weakness of the soul, That asks the wild waves as they roll,— That asks the light winds as they sweep,— To share the human tears we weep: Not all in vain is such a prayer— They soothe, although they may not share.  But 'twas too soon for the sweet sense Of Nature's hallowing influence; Her silent and subduing power Is felt upon a later hour;
Not on the first dream-haunted mood Of youth's impassioned solitude. It was Amenaïde's first sorrow;— To such there seemeth no to-morrow.
As yet she knew not how such tears Are half forgot in future years; How life effaces as it goes The keenest pang of earlier woes. How careless and how cold we grow, Dry as the dust we tread below; As if the grave its chillness threw, The grave—which all are hastening to! But she, the youthful mourner there, Was bowed beneath her first despair.  The first,—ah! none can ever know That agony again—
When youth's own force is on the blow, Its keenness in the pain.
She gazed, although she knew not why, Where ocean seemed another sky.  The moon looked down upon the deep, Till in that deep it seemed to be;  Scarce might the eye the image keep Of which was sky, and which was sea.
But soft! above the glittering tide Black shadows in their silence glide;  They are not from the heavens above, They keep the moonlight from the wave;  Slowly the far-off phantoms move, And bring the darkness of the grave.
They leave the rocky coast that flings Its gloom above their spreading wings; They sweep before the rising gale, The moonlight falls upon the sail; With swelling canvass, snowy crest, Like sea-birds in their plumage drest, The tall ships come, that soon afar Will bear Leoni to the war.
She watched them on their shining track,— So looks the wretch upon the rack; Tho' dews upon her forehead rise, No tears are in her large wild eyes. She starts, some strange and sudden thought The crimson to her cheek has brought; Her bitten lip is yet more white, Her blue eye fills with eager light;
Some wish, o'er which she dares not brood, Has risen on her feverish mood. Some thoughts there are, that may not brook Upon their own resolve to look. The grief which acts is easier borne, Than that which weeps,—the lone and lorn; And, urged by love and love's despair, What is there woman will not dare?