The Pony, 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 Susan lay deep 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," 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.

XXIII.

MICHAEL,

A PASTORAL POEM.

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 beside that boisterous Brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation there is seen; but such

As 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,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook

There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnished with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,

Or for the summer shade. It was the first,
The earliest of those tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved ;—not verily

For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency

Of natural objects led me on to feel

For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed)

On

man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills Will be my second self when I am gone.