Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/65

 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;