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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, in stanty 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 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, a 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!—t is a Town where both of us were born; None will reproach you, for our truth is known; And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate fiernain unpitied, pity is not in man. With ornaments—the prettiest, nature yields or art can fashion, shall you deck your 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

of even the least emotion.

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 solace now must pass into the list of things that cannot be! Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears The sentence, by her Mother's lip pronounced, 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 of agony had pressed the Sufferer down;– The word, by others dreaded, he can hear Composed and silent, without visible sign 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—-cemingly 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, oy the unbending Parents of the Maid,

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-one! 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 hill, That rose a brief league distant from the town, The Dwellers in that house 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 took, Throughout that journey, from the vehicle (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes') that veiled 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, 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 Admittance was denied. The young Man spake No words of indignation or reproof, Iut 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 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 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!

From this time forth he never shared a smile

With mortal creature. An Inliabitant
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
kepaired, 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 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 day;

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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:
—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, Betty Foy!
She 's coining 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 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 stilled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed.

She kisses o'er and o'er again iiim whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She is happy here, is happy there, She is uneasy every where; tler 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 reius, when this was said,
And gently turned the Pony's head
Hrom 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.

The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, belines abroad,
That hobbles up the steep rough road?
Who is it, but old Susan Galet

Long time lay Susan lost in thought,
And 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 spies 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 Betty, a Tell us, Johnny, do,
Where 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 had 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 paston Al. Poevi.

If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
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 stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,

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