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The Legend of St. Loy

With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud
  
  

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II.

What mockery? Whereof do I complain?
Of this — that I, who would full-willing roam,
With eagle spirit, land and rolling main,
In quest of Nature and of Knowledge high,
And Wisdom and Observance, and each scene
Which Fancy loves, where Meditation dwells,

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And to the Bard give wings wherewith to fly,
Rocks, mountains, forests, solitary cells,
Can scarcely steal one hour from Toil and Home,
To mark Creation's wonders, and to glean
Of that a little, which the Sons of Mind,
In rich abundance, have possessed, and poured
Into their Songs, that nought on earth confined;
Whereof, with much regard, I have explored
Many of soul-deep sweetness; — though to more
A stranger, which I trust have sweets in store
For me, — what time I from my labour strayed,
With some loved book to feed my hungry thought
Albeit oft chid by those who never read
For wandering from the service of my Trade,
Though but a moment — I could snatch no more —
For I've not known the silence of one hour,
To Meditation and the Muse devote!
(Yet I am mute; — none hath a murmur heard;—
Whate'er my thought, 'tis voiceless and interred —
None, save my harp — that answers me again,
And soothes me with a sympathetic strain.)
Nor can long-time my fond ideas dwell

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On scenes they mourn to leave, and love so well;
For with the sons of bustle I am pressed,
Bereft of what my soul affects the best —
Perpetual Thought, that in a heavenly mood
Seeks silence, and the pensive solitude,
Whence it can rise as high as angels can,
And prove how near allied to them is man.