So framed is such a mind, it works
With dangerous thoughts and things;
Beneath, the fiery lava lurks,
But on the surface springs
A prodigality of bloom,
A thousand hues that might illume
Even an angel’s wings!
Thrice beautiful the outward show,
Still the volcano is below.
It is the curse of such a mind
That it can never rest,
Ever its wings upon the wind
In some pursuit are prest;
And either the pursuit is vain,
Or, if its object it attain,
It was not worth the quest,
Yet from the search it cannot cease,
And fold its plumes, and be at peace.
And what were that boy-poet’s dreams,
As here he wont to stray,
When evening cast her pensive gleams
Around his forest way?
Came there "thick fancies" ’mid the gloom,
Of war-horse, trumpet, pennant, plume,
And all the proud array,
When mailed barons, stern and old,
Kept state in Newstead’s ancient hold?
Or more—was the boy's fancy won
By penance and by vow,
When hooded monk and veiled nun,
The beating heart and brow,
Alike concealed from common eyes,
Revealed, perhaps, to midnight skies,
Dreams that possessed him now?
Dreams of a world, whose influence still
Prevaileth over human will.
13
