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While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,
The downward pathway taking,
And to a holly bower;
By thee, Sir Eglamore!
A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight,
His coming step has thwarted, Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted.
Perplexed her fingers seem,
Flung from her to the stream.
What means the Spectre ? Why intent
To violate the Tree,
To her I left, shall prove
Of valour, truth, and love.
In plunged the Knight! when on firm ground
The rescued Maiden lay,
Confusion passed away;
Her faithful Spirit flew,
She felt that he was true.
So was he reconciled to life:
Brief words may speak the rest ;
And there was Sorrow's guest;
From vain temptations free;
And awed to piety.
Wild stream of Aira, hold thy courso,
Nor fear memorial lays,
Are edged with golden rays !
Though minister of sorrow; Sweet is thy voice at pensive Even; And thou, in Lovers' hearts forgiven,
Shall take thy place with Yarrow!
THE IDIOT BOY.
So from the spot whereon he stood,
He moved with stealthy pace;
He recognised the face;
Some to the green-leaved tree,
“I heard, and so may he !"
'Tis eight o'clock,
- a clear March night,
- 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 ?
Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew
If Emma's Ghost it were,
Her very self stood there.
The soft touch snapped the thread
Along its foaming bed.
There's scarce a soul that's out of bed;
So through the moonlight lanes they go,
And Betty, now at Susan's side,
And Betty, still at Susan's side,
But Betty, poor good Woman! she,
But yet I guess that now and then
And Susan's growing worse and worse,
The clock is on the stroke of one;
And Susan now begins to fear
She prefaced half a hint of this
“I must be gone, I must away,
" What can I do?” says Betty, going,
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!
So, through the moonlight lane she goes,
In high and low, above, below,
The bridge is past — far in the dale;
"O woe is me! O woe is me! Here will I die; here will I die; I thought to find my lost one here, Rut he is neither far nor near, Ob! what a wretched Mother I!"
O Reader! now that I might tell