 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
III.
The string that throbbed in Almar's breastWas not, nor could it be, represt.
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Which awakened with the heart's mysterious thrill,
For the hapless doom of that lady fair,
Endeared by her misery, and, haply, more dear,
And called up the chords of sad Memory, to tell
The sorrow for her he had loved so well,
But wronged her from that love's excess!
Yet who might wish he had loved her less?
| The Legend of St. Loy | |