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 everywhere;
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.
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 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.
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,
have seen;
What you have heard, what you
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.
HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!
While here sits One, whose brightness owes its hues
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love!
PRESENTIMENTS! they judge not right
Who deem that ye from open light
Retire in fear of shame;
All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch
Of vulgar sense,-and, being such,
Such privilege ye claim.
The tear whose source I could not guess,
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless,
Were mine in early days;
And now, unforced by time to part
With fancy, I obey my heart,
And venture on your praise.
What though some busy foes to good,
Too potent over nerve and blood,
Lurk near you-and combine
To taint the health which ye infuse;
This hides not from the moral Muse,
Your origin divine.
How oft from you, derided Powers!
Comes faith that in auspicious hours.
Builds castles not of air;
Bodings unsanctioned by the will
Flow from your visionary skill,
And teach us to beware.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift,
That no philosophy can lift,
Shall vanish, if ye please,
Like morning mist: and, where it lay,
The spirits at your bidding play
Star-guided contemplations move
Through space, through calm, not raised above Prognostics that ye rule;
The naked Indian of the wild,
And haply, too, the cradled Child,
Are pupils of your school.
But who can fathom your intents,
Number their signs or instruments?
A rainbow, a sunbeam,
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds,
Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds,
An echo, or a dream.
The laughter of the Christmas hearth
With sighs of self-exhausted mirth
Ye feelingly reprove
And daily in the conscious breast,
Your visitations are a test
And exercise of love.
When some great change gives boundless
To an exulting Nation's hope,
Oft, startled and made wise
By your low-breathed interpretings,
The simply meek foretaste the springs
Of bitter contraries.
Ye daunt the proud array of war,
Pervade the lonely ocean far
As sail hath been unfurled;
For dancers in the festive hall
What ghastly partners hath your call
Fetched from the shadowy world.
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