Made answer, “Nay, not parables, but truths;”
Endured no change of phrase; to years remote
Transmitted them as facts.
Better than tale
They loved their minstrel’s harp. The songs he sang
Were songs to brighten gentle hearts, to fire
Strong hearts with holier courage, hope to breathe
Through spirits despondent, o’er the childless floor
Or widowed bed, flashing from highest heaven
A beam half faith, half vision. Many a tear,