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
Upbraided him with slackness, he returned
No answer, only took the mother's hand
And kissed it seemingly devoid of pain,
Or care, that what 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 parents of the maid,
To secret spousals meanly disavowed.
So be it!

In the city he remaine
A season after Julia had withdrawn
To those religious walls.

He, too, departs[little one! Who with him? - even the senseless With that sole charge he passed the citygates,

For the last time, attendant by the side
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,
In which the babe was carried. To a hill,
That rose a brief league distant from the
[lodged
The dwellers in that house where he had
Accompanied his steps, by anxious love
Impelled-they parted from him there,

town,

and stood

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 mothers ne'er were known
to look,

| Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age
Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew;
And thither took with him his 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 mis-
take

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!

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 chance of business, coming within reach
Of his retirement, to the forest lodge
Repaired, but only found the matron there,
Who told him that his pains were thrown

away,

For that her master never uttered word
To living thing-not even to her.-Behold!
While they were speaking, Vaudracour
approached;

But, seeing some one near, even as his hand
Was stretched towards the garden gate, he

The visitor retired.

braced.

This was the manner in which Vandra

cour

Departed with his infant; and thus reached
His father's house, where to the innocent
child
[spake
Admittance was denied. The young man
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 had none. To a lodge that

stood

Or personal memory of his own deep

Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret ?
And why on horseback have 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 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 up upon the 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 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 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 flurry,
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.

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 messenger's in merry tune;
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they hurr, burr, burr,
As on he goes beneath the moon.

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

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 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
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 more
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 tenBoth 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,
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 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 quandery;
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 Bett's 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 for ever 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.

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.

The bridge is past-far in the dale;
And now the thought torments her 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.

"O 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 waterfall."
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;
'Tis 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 casement shows
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze!
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.

"Oh, woe is me! Oh, 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;
"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 near
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
Are 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.

Then up she springs as if on wings;
She thinks no more of deadly sin;
It 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 is 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 his 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 him befel,
He surely met with strange adventures.

O gentle Muses! is this kind?
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended leave me;
Ye Muses! whom I love so well?

Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,
Which thunders down with headlong force,
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,
As careless as if nothing were,
Sits upright on a feeding horse?
Unto his horse, there feeding free,
He seems, I think, the rein to give;
Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
Of such we in romances read:

"Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

And that's the very pony too!
Where is she, where is Betty Fora
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, Betty Foy!
She's coming from among the trees,
And now ail 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, 'tis no ghost,

'Tis he whom you so long have lost,
He 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 has o'erturned the horse
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.

And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,
Whether in cunning or in joy

I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs
To hear again her 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 stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty 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;
Her 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 his joy.

"Oh! Johnny, never mind the doctor;
You've done your best, and that is all."
She took the reins, when this was said,
And gently turned the pony's head
From the loud waterfall.

By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was setting on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir,
Though yet their tongues were still.