THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
67
She will not touch her lute's hush'd chords,
She will not list her maiden's words.
The shadows on her eyelids press
Of Love's delicious idleness.
Amid her train there was a page,
A Moorish youth of tender age
A delicate, pale orphan flung
Too soon the world's rude paths among:
Friendless, save one old harper's care;
Too young to strive, too weak to bear
The many evils that await
The lonely path—the low estate.
Irene's tenderness was moved,
And soon her gentle page she loved.
He was so timid, and so weak,
The tears so soon on his dark cheek,
