The Legend of St. Loy With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud |
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 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
III.
This is not all, nor half the mockeryThat scowls upon my blank captivity!
I know not why, save to afflict me more,
Fate brought me to the rural scene, where I
Tune, querulous, this Song of mournful lore,
And walk not forth abroad in open sky;
But, cooped beneath a roof of narrow space,
Toil o'er the work that to the town belongs —
Retirement, — not for study, that might raise
Thoughts, worthy of the purpose of my songs,—
But for the aid of business, that my speed
May have no interruption; hence my time
Is filled up closely with the dull routine,
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Hath space to breathe, or leisure for a rhime;
And scarce one wing my Spirit can put forth,
Galled by the chain that binds her down to earth!
I had hoped reverse of this, and hailed the voice,
Which told me, eve and morn, the rural scene
I should behold, and purely breathe the air,
Franchised from smoke of Cities, and the noise;
And that, perchance, whole days should see me here; —
And then I weened a part of them t' employ,
Pondering on Nature's charms and loveliness,
Harmonious beauty, and melodious grace,
With all the music of her voice of joy;
And breathing fragrant incense of her breath —
Farewell, fond hopes! for I have seen your death —
“But where are Nature's beauties? — they are gone —
“And Winter hath congealed each stream to stone; —
“And Winter blasts the leaves from every tree; —
“Each field is blanched — there is no harmony —
“Neither fair sky — but all is cold and storm
“Which shrink and harrow up the human form.”
| The Legend of St. Loy | |