5

Desperate the Maid-the Youth is stained

with blood;

Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet!
Yet as the troubled seed and tortured bough
Is Man, subjected to despotic sway.

For him, by private influence with the
Court,

Was pardon gained, and liberty procured;
But not without exaction of a pledge,
Which liberty and love dispersed in air.
He flew to her from whom they would di-
vide him-

He clove to her who could not give him peace

Yea, his first word of greeting was,-" All right

Is gone from me; iny lately-towering hopes,
To the least fibre of their lowest root,
Are withered; thou no longer canst be
mine,

I thine the conscience-stricken must not

WOO

The unruffled Innocent,-I see thy face, Behold thee, and my misery is complete!"

"One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden -"One,

For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?"

Then with the father's name she coupled words

Of vehement indignation; but the Youth Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought

Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense
Of hasty anger, rising in the eclipse
Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er
Find place within his bosom.-Once again
The persevering wedge of tyranny
Achieved their separation: and once more
Were they united.-to be yet again
Disparted, pitiable lot! But here
A portion of the tale may well be left
In silence, though my memory could add
Much how the Youth, in scanty space of
time,

Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughts

That occupied his days in solitude
Under privation and restraint; and what,
Through dark and shapeless fear of things

Doomed to a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born,

Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. "You shall return, Julia," said he, " and to your father's house Go with the child.-You have been wretched; yet

The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs

Too heavily upon the lily's head,
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.
Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
Go! 'tis a town where both of us were
born;

None will reproach you, for our truth is
known;
[fate
And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our
Remain unpitied, pity is not in man.
With ornaments-the prettiest, nature yields
Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy,
And feed his countenance with your own
sweet looks

Till no one can resist him-Now, even

now,

I see him sporting on the sunny lawn;
My father from the window sees him too;
Startled, as if some new-created thing
Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods
Bounded before him;-but the unweeting
Child

Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart

So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily, as they began!"

These gleams Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus His head upon one breast, while from the

other

The Babe was drawing in its quiet food.
-That pillow is no longer to be thine,
Fond Youth! that mournful sclace now
must pass

Into the list of things that cannot be !
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears
The sentence, by her mother's lips pro-
nounced,

That dooms her to a convent.-Who shall tell,

Who dares report, the tidings to the lord
Of her affections? so they blindly asked
Who knew not to what quiet depths a
weight

THE IDIOT BOY.

'Tis eight o'clock, a clear March night,
The moon is up,-the sky is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from nobody knows where;
He lengthens out his lonely shout,
Halloo! halloo! a long halloo !

-Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty tret?
And why on horseback have you set
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
Scarcely a soul is out of bed;
Good Betty, put him down again;
His lips with joy they burr at you;
But, Betty! what has he to do
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

But Betty's bent on her intent;
For her good neighbor, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,
As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
And sorely puzzled are the twain,
For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale;
There's none to help poor Susan Gale;
What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her Pony, that is mild and good;
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane,
Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim,-
And by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has on the well-girt saddle set,
(The like was never heard of yet)
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And he must post without delay
Across the bridge and through the dale,
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town,
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

There is no need of boot or spur,
There is no need of whip or wand;
For Johnny has his holly bough,

And with a hurly-burly now

He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The Boy, who is her best delight,
Both what to follow, what to shun,
What to do, and what to leave undone,
How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge,
Was," Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all,-
Come home again, wuate'er befal,
My Johnny, do, I pray you do."

To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too,
And then his words were not a few,
Which Betty well could understand.
And now that Johnny is just going,
Though Betty's in a mighty furry,
She gently pats the Pony's side,
On which her Idiot Boy must ride,
And seems no longer in a hurry

But when the Pony moved his legs,
Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy!
For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For joy his head and heels are idle,
He's idle all for very joy.

And while the Pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left hand you may see
The green bough motionless and dead:
The Moon that shines above his head
Is not more still and mute than he.
His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship:
Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
And while the Mother, at the door
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows,
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim,
How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her Idiot Boy,
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
He's at the guide-post-he turns right;
She watches till he's out of sight,
And Betty will not then depart.

Burr, burr-now Johnny's lips they burr,
As loud as any mill, or near it;
Meek as a lamb the Pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves,
And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

Away she hies to Susan Gale:
Her M. ssenger's in merry tune;
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,
As on he goes beneath the moon.

His steed and he right well agree;
For of this Pony there's a rumor,
That, should he lose his eyes and ears,
And should he live a thousand years,
He never will be out of humor.

But then he is a horse that thinks!
And when he thinks, his pace is slack;
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell
What he has got upon his back.

So through the moonlight lanes they go,
And far into the moonlight dale,
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a Doctor from the town,
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And Betty, now at Susan's side,
Is in the middle of her story,
What speedy help her Boy will bring,
With many a most diverting thing,
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.

And Betty, still at Susan's side,
By this time is not quite so flurried
Denure with porringer and plate
She sits, as if in Susan's fate
Her life and soul were buried.

But Betty, poor good Woman! she,
You plainly in her face may read it,
Could lend out of that moment's store
Five years of happiness or mor
To any that might need it.

But yet I guess that now and then
With Betty all was not so well;
And to the road she turns her ears,
And thence full many a sound she hears,
Which she to Susan will not tell.

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,
"As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"
Cries Betty," he'll be back again;
They'll both be here-'tis almost ten-
Both will be here before eleven."

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
The clock gives warning for eleven ;
'Tis on the stroke-" He must be near,"
Quoth Betty," and will soon be here,
And sure as there's a moon in heaven."

The clock is on the stroke of twelve,
And Johnny is not yet in sight:

The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,
But Betty is not quite at ease;
And Susan has a dreadful night.

And Betty, half an hour ago,
On Johnny vile reflections cast:
"A little idle sauntering Thing!
With other names, an endless string;
But now that time is gone and past.

And Betty's drooping at the heart,
That happy time all past and gone,
"How can it be he is so late?

The Doctor, he has made him wait;
Susan! they'll both be here anon."
And Susan's growing worse and worse,
And Betty's in a sad quandary;
And then there's nobody to say
If she must go, or she must stay!
-She's in a sad quandary.

The clock is on the stroke of one;
But neither Doctor nor his Guide
Appears along the moonlight road;
There's neither horse nor man abroad,
And Betty still at Susan's side.

And Susan now begins to fear
Of sad mischances not a few,
That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;
Or lost, perhaps, and never found;
Which they must both forever rue.

She prefaced half a hint of this
With, "God forbid it should be true!"
At the first word that Susan said
Cried Betty, rising from the bed,
"Susan, I'd gladly stay with you

I must be gone, I must away:
Consider, Johnny's but half-wise;
Susan, we must take care of him,
If he is hurt in life or limb".
"Oh God forbid !" poor Susan cries.

"What can I do?" says Betty, going,
"What can I do to ease your pain?
Good Susan, tell me, and I'll stay;
I fear you're in a dreadful way,
But I shall soon be back again."
"Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go!
There's nothing that can ease my pain."
Then off she hies; but with a prayer
That God poor Susan's life would spare
Till she comes back again,

So, through the moonlight lane she goes,
And far into the moonlight dale;
And how she ran, and how she walked,
And all that to herself she talked,
Would surely be a tedious tale.

In high and low, above, below,
In great and small, in round and square,
In tree and tower was Johnny seen,
In bush and brake, in black and green;
'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

And while she crossed the bridge, there

came

A thought with which her heart is sore-
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,
To hunt the moon within the brook,
And never will be heard of more.

Now is she high upon the down,
Alone amid a prospect wide;
There's neither Johnny nor his Horse
Among the fern or in the gorse;
There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.
"Oh saints! what is become of him?
Perhaps he's climbed into an oak,
Where he will stay till he is dead;
Or, sadly he has been misled,
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.
Or him that wicked Pony's carried
To the dark cave, the goblin's hall,
Or in the castle he's pursuing
Among the ghosts his own undoing;
Or playing with the waterfali."
At poor old Susan then she railed,
While to the town she posts away;
"If Susan had not been so ill,
Alas! I should have had him still,
My Johnny, till my dying day."
Poor Betty, in this sad distemper,
The Doctor's self could hardly spare:
Unworthy things she talked, and wild;
Even he, of cattle the most mild,
The Pony had his share.

But now she's fairly in the town,
And to the Doctor's door she hies:
"Tis silence all on every side;
The town so long, the town so wide,
ls silent as the skies.

And now she's at the Doctor's door,
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;
The Doctor at the casement shows
His glimmering eyes that peep and dose;
And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?"

"I'm here, what is't you want with me?" "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, And I have lost my poor dear Boy, You know him-him you often see

He's not so wise as some folks be:"
"The devil take his wisdom!" said
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,
"What, Woman! should I know of him?"
And, grumbling, he went back to bed!
"O woe is me! O woe is me!
Here will I die; here will I die;
I thought to find my lost one here,
But he is neither far nor near,
Oh what a wretched Mother I!'

She stops, she stands, she looks about ;
Which way to turn she cannot tell.
Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
If she had heart to knock again;

-The clock strikes three-a dismal knell!
Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her senses fail;

This piteous news so much it shocked her
She quite forgot to send the Doctor
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And now she's high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road:
"O cruel! I'm almost threescore ;
Such night as this was ne'er before,
There's not a single soul abroad."
She listens, but she cannot hear
The foot of horse, the voice of man ;
The streams with softest sound are flowing,
The grass you almost hear it growing.
You hear it now, if e'er you can.

The owlets through the long blue night
And shouting to each other still:
Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob
They lengthen out the tremulous sob,
That echoes far from hill to hill.

Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin,
A green-grown pond she just has past,
And from the brink she hurries fast,
Lest she should drown herself therein.
And now she sit her down and weeps;
Such tears she never shed before;
"Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
Oh carry back my Idiot Boy!

And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."