 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
XIV.
From him hath Almar gathered aught,'Tis buried in his silent thought,
Though his brow-knitted eyes avow
There's that within he would not show.
Whate'er it be, his Pride, I ween,
Forbids the secret to be seen,
Lest that a Father's wild despair
May for a phantom stoop to err —
No! — he till certainty assure
Belief, the torture will endure,
That if the Truth approve it fond
It go not his own breast beyond.
| The Legend of St. Loy | |