 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
97
I.
Not to the House of Mirth; — where hidden WoeThe loud laugh mocks, and strives with care in vain,
Like triumph o'er the tomb of dreaded foe,
Which trembles still, lest he may rise again; —
Where study e'er invents new arts to stain,
And, after, sear the page of conscience ill; —
Where Death lurks in the mantled bowl they drain,
By Feud preceded, and fell Mischief still: —
Which Wisdom shuns, aye bent to Virtue's pleasant hill;
98
Most constantly inclined! For there the heart
Is bared — compelled the eye of Truth to meet,
That, undeceived, she may scan every part,
Virtues of Nature, peccancies of Art,
Free from the mists of Prejudice and Folly;
And, 'mid her soul-ennobling sorrows, start,
With angel-wing, to things divine and holy —
Ever sacred be my Harp to Love and Melancholy!
| The Legend of St. Loy | |