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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, io scanty space of time,
Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughts
That occupied bis days in solitude
Under privation and restraint; and what,
Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come,
And what, through strong compunction for the past,
He suffered-breaking down in heart and mind!

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

lily's head,
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.
Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
Go!-i is a Town where both of us were boro;
Nope will reproach you, for our truth is known;
And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate
Remain uppitied, pity is not in man.
With ornaments - the prettiest, nature yields
Or art can fashion, sball you

deck

your Boy, Aod feed his countenance with your own sweet looks

Tull no one can resist him.-Now, even now, | I see him sporting on the sunny lawn ;

My Father from the window sees liim 100;
Startled, as if some new-created Thing
Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods
Bounded before him ;--but the unweeting Child
Sball by his beauty win his Graodsire'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
l'pou the Mother's bosom; resting thus
Iles head upon one breast, while from the other
The Babe was drawing-in its quiet food.

– That pillow is no longer to be thine,
| Foad Youth! that mournful solace now must pass

Into the list of things that cannot be!
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, bears
The sentence, by her Mother's lip pronounced,
That dooms her to a Convent.-- Who shall rell,
Wbo dares report, the lidings to the Lord
Of her affections? So they blindly asked
Who knew pot to what quiet depthis a weight
Of acony had pressed the Sufferer down;-
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear

Composed and silent, without visible sign . Of even the least emotion. Noting this

When the impatient Object of his love
Ipbraided him with slackness, lie returned
No answer, only took the Mother's hand
Aod kissed it-scemingly devoid of pain,
Or care, that wliat so tenderly he pressed,
. Was a dependant on the obdurate heart

Of One who came to disunite their lives
For ever-sad alternative! preferred,

by the unbending: Parcots of the Maid, i

To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.
-So be it!

In the city he remained
A season after Julia had withdrawn
To those religious walls. He, too, departs-
Who with him?-even the senseless Little-ope!
With that sole Charge he passed the city-gates,
For the last time, attendant by the side
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,
In which the Babe was carried. To a bill,
That rose a brief league distant from the town,
The Dwellers in that liouse where he had lodged
Accompanied his steps, by anxious love
Impelled :—they parted from him there, and stood
Watching below, till he had disappeared
On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely look,
Throughout that journey, from the vehicle
(Slow-moving ark of all his hopes!) that vciled
The tender Infant: and at every inn,
And under every hospitable tree
At which the Bearers halted or reposed,
Laid him with timid care upon his knees,
And looked, as mothiers ne'er were known to look,
Upon the Nursling which his arms embraced.

- This was the manner in which Vaudracour Departed with his Infant; and thus reached His Father's house, where to the innocent Child Admillance was denied. The young Man spake No words of indignation or reproof, But of his father begged, a last request, That a retreat might be assigned to him Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, With such allowance as his wants required; For wishes he bad none. To a Lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers be withdrew; And thither took with him bis infant Babe, And one Domestic, for their common needs, An aged Woman. It consoled him here To attend upon the Orphan, and perform Obsequious service to the precious Child, Which, after a short time, by some mistake Or indiscretion of the Father, died. The Tale I follow to its last recess Of suffering or of peace, I know not which; Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!

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From this time forth he never shared a smile
With mortal creature. An Inhabitant
Of that same Town, in which the Pair had left
So lively a remembrance of their griefs,
By chaoce of business, coming within reach
Of his retirement, to the forest lodge
Kepaired, but only found the Matron there,
Who told him that liis pains were thrown away,
For that her Master never uttered word
To living Thing—not even to hier. -- Behold!
While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached;
But, seeing some one near, even as his hand
Was stretched towards the garden gate, he shrunk-
And, like a shadow, glided out of view.
Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place
The Visitor retired.

Thus lived the Youth
Cut off from all intelligence with man,
And shunning even the light of common «lay;

Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France
Full speedily resounded, public hope,
Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
Rouse him: but in those solitary shades
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind!

THE IDIOT BOY. "T is eight o'clock,-a clear March night, The Moon is up—the Sky is blue, The Owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts, from nobody kuows 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 fret? And why on horseback bave you set Him whom you love, your idiot Boy? There's scarce a soul that's 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 neighbour, 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 o'er and o'er has told The Boy, who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What 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, whate'er befal, My Johnoy, 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, Wbich Betty well could understand. And now that Jolinny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the Pony's side, On which her Idiot Boy must ride, And secms 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 liead 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, Joho. 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 quiety her Johnny goes. The silence of her Idiot Boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! He's at the Guide-post—he turos right, She watches till he's out of sight, And Betty will not then depart. Burr, burr—now Johony's lips they burr, As loud as any mill, or near it; Meck 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: Uer Messenger '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.

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
llas up upon the saddle set
(The like was never heard of yet)
Ilim 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.

His Steed and lle right well agree;
For of this Pony there 's a rumour,
Thal, should he lose his eyes and ears,
And should he live a thousand years,
He never will be out of humour.

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But then he is a Horse that thinks! And when he thinks his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johony 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 comfort soon 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: Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate ller life and soul were buried. Bat 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 more To any that might need it. But yet I guess that now and then With Belly 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--'t is almost tenBoth will be here before eleven.» Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven; T is on the stroke-« He must be near, Quoih Betty, « and will soon be here, As 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 eadless 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
Appear along the moonlight road;
There's neither horse nor man abroad,
And Betty 's still at Susan's side.
And Susan now begins to fear
Of sad mischances not a few,
That Jobony may perhaps be drowned,
Or lost, perhaps, and never found;
Which they must both for ever rue.
She prefaced half a hint of this
With, «God forbid it should be truc !»
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, Johony '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 is nothing that can ease my pain.» Then off she hies; but with

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, 'T was Johnny, Johnny, every where. The bridge is past-far in the dale; And now the thought torments her sore, Johony 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 Johnoy nor his Horse Among the fern or in the gorse; There is neither Doctor nor his Guide. « Oh saints! what is become of him? Perhaps be '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 bis own undoing; Or playing with the waterfall.»

Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent op deadly sin:
A green-grown pond she just has past,
And from the brink she hurries fast,
Lest she should drown herself therein.

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.
And now she's got into the town,
And to the Doctor's door she hies;
'T is silence all on every side;
The town so long, the town so wide,
Is silent as the skies.
And now she's at the Doctor's door,
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;
The Doctor at the casemcot shows
His glimmering eyes

that

peep and doze! And one land rubs his old night-cap. « Oh Doctor! Doctor! where 's my Johnny!» «I'm here, what is 't you want witla 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, Woinan! 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 capaot lell. 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: « Oh 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 niglit Are shouting to each other siill: Food lovers! yet not quite hob nob, They lengthen out the tremulous sob, That echoes far from bill to hill,

And now she sits 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.»
A thought is come into her head :
« The Pony he is mild and good,
And we have always used bim well;
Perlaps he 's gone along the dell,
And carried Johony to the wood.»
Then up slie springs as if on wings;
She thinks no more of deadly sin;
If Betty fifty ponds should see,
The last of all her thoughts would be
To drown herself therein.
O Reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and bis Horse are doing!
What they 've been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme,
A most delightful tale pursuing !
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
He with his Pony now doth roam
The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
To lay bis hands upon a star,
And in his pocket bring it home.
Perhaps he's turned himself about,
His face unto his horse's tail,
And, still and mute, in wonder lost,
All like a silent Horseman-Ghost,
He travels on along the vale.
And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he;
Yon valley, now so trim and green,
In five months' time, should he be seen,
A desert wilderness will be!
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
And like the very soul of evil,
He's galloping away, away,
And so will gallop on for aye,
The bane of all that dread the devil!
I to the Muses have been bound
These fourteen years, by strong indentures :
O gentle Muses! let me tell
But half of what to bim befel;
He surely met with strange adventures,
() gentle Muses! is this kind ?
Why will ye thus my suit repel?

your

further aid bereave me? And can ye thus unfriended leave me ; Ye Muses! wliom I love so well ? Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, Which thunders down with headlong force, Beneath the Moon, yet slıining fair, As careless as if nothing were, Sits upright on a feeding Horse?

Why of

Unto his Horse, there feeding free,
He seems, I think, the rein to give;
Of Moon or Stars be takes no heed;
Of such we in romances read :

- T is Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
And that's the very Pony too!
Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
She hardly can sustain her fears ;
The roaring waterfall she hears,
And cannot find her Idiot Boy.
Your Pony's worth his weight in gold :
Then calm your terrors, Belly Foy!
She's coming from among the trees,
And now all full in view she sees
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And Betty sees the Pony too :
Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?
It is no goblin, 't is no ghost,
'T is he whom you so long have lost,
Ile whom you love, your Idiot Boy.
She looks again, her arms are up-
She screams-she cannot move for joy;
She darts, as with a torrent's force,
She almost bas o'erturned the Horse,
Avd fast she holds her Idiot Boy.
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,
Whether in cunving or in joy
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betly a drunken pleasure quaffs
To hear again ber Idiot Boy.
And now she's at the Pony's tail,
And now is at the Pony's head, -
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stilled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Belly shed.
She kisses o'er and o'er again
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;
She's happy here, is happy there,
She is uneasy every where;
ller limbs are all alive with joy.
She pats the Pony, where or when
She knows not, happy Betty foy!
The little Pony glad may be,
But he is milder far than she,
You hardly can perceive bis joy.
« Oh! Jobony, dever mind the Doctor;
You 've done your best, and that is all.»
She took the reius, when this was said,
And gently turned the Pony's lead
from the loud waterfall.
By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was selling on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir,
Though yet their longues were still.
The l'ory, Betty, and her Boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, betimes abroad,
That hobbles up the steep rough road?
Who is it, but old Susan Gale!

Long time lay Susan lost in thought,
Aud
many

dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her Messenger and Nurse;
And as her mind grew worse and worse,
Her body it grew better.
She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
Point after point did she discuss;
And while her mind was fighting thus,
Her body still grew better.
« Alas! what is become of them ?
These fears can never be endured,
I'll to the wood.»—The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed,
As if by magic cured.
Away she posts up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come;
She spics her Friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting
As ever was in Christendom.
The Owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four Travellers homeward wend;
The Owls have hooted all night long,
And with the Owls began my song,
And with the Owls must end.
For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Belly, « Tell us, Johnny, do,
Whicre all this long night you have been,
What

you

have heard, what you have seen, And, Johnny, mind you tell us true.» Now Johnny all night long bad heard The Owls in tuneful concert strive; No doubt too he the Moon had seen; For in the moonlight he had been From eight o'clock till five. And thus, to Betty's question, he Made answer, like a Traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) « The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the Sun did shine so cold.» -Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story.

MICHAEL,

A PASTORAL POEM.

If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Chyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent
The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous Brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stoves, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an atter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,

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