Rush on his mind in dark and doubtful sense,
His mind a chaos of blind zeal, that spurns
Th’ unerring clue which mild discretion lends.
Perchance the clashing images strike out
Some ray of casual light; how soon
The weak and momentary glance is lost
Beneath a load of wild obscurity!
Much does he labour with some weighty thought
Of faith, of grace, of Heaven, perchance of hell,
But all in vain be draws the thread confused