43
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learnt a prayer nor told a bead;
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself!
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To gather seeds of wild-flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who oft cull'd simples in the wood,
A grey-haired man—he loved this little boy:
The boy loved him—and, when the Friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.
So he became a very learned youth.
But oh! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turned—and ere his twentieth year,
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, or in a holy place;—
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valez ne'er was wearied with him:
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together, chained in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;
