Some spark of doubt to ardent heresy,
My father suffer’d, lost his honor’d name,
His living, all; nor struggled, scrimpt, and starved
To leave his daughter ignorant of the cause.
And I?—no, no; it courses through my blood;
And you would hate my tastes, which cannot be
Like yours religious; no, for I was made
To be the minister of only art.”
“But, Edith,” urged I, “truth far more includes
Than most men deem who would deem all things theirs.—