The Legend of St. Loy With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud |
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The Legend of St. Loy | ||
XXII.
The sword of vengeance is bared, yet they
Who bare it for a moment stay —
Whether the Saint controls their course
To unutterable pause, perforce,
That the impatient faulchion may
Be sharpened with reserve to slay —
Or them free choice, with like design.
Awhile such scene to scan incline,
The minstrel skills not to divine.
Who bare it for a moment stay —
Whether the Saint controls their course
To unutterable pause, perforce,
119
Be sharpened with reserve to slay —
Or them free choice, with like design.
Awhile such scene to scan incline,
The minstrel skills not to divine.
To see her kneeling at his feet,
'Twas like an angel to a fiend,
As Sin had won the blessed seat,
And Hell her Heaven lost regained: —
So urgently to hear her plead
For death from his remorseless steel,
'Twas like the song of sadness made
By the sweet, love-lorn nightingale,
That, in some melancholy cave,
Invokes the hand which robbed her nest
To join her with them in the grave,
That she may be at rest!
'Twas like an angel to a fiend,
As Sin had won the blessed seat,
And Hell her Heaven lost regained: —
So urgently to hear her plead
For death from his remorseless steel,
'Twas like the song of sadness made
By the sweet, love-lorn nightingale,
That, in some melancholy cave,
Invokes the hand which robbed her nest
To join her with them in the grave,
That she may be at rest!
The Legend of St. Loy | ||