These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain, nor pity, in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; The travellers saw me weep, my fate enquired, And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired. Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly, The bagpipe, dinning on the midnight moor, Among the forest-glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. But ill they suited me-those journeys dark, O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. What could I do, unaided and unblest? My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine : Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields: Foregone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend, Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : Three years a wanderer now my course I bend, Oh! tell me whither-for no earthly friend Have I. She ceased, and weeping turned away: As if because her tale was at an end, She wept because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. THE IDIOT BOY. Wordsworth. 'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night, -Why bustle thus about your door, Scarcely a soul is out of bed: But Betty's bent on her intent; There's not a house within a mile, And Betty's husband's at the wood, And Betty from the lane has fetched And he is all in travelling trim,— And he must post without delay Across the bridge, and through the dale, There is no need of boot or spur, And with a hurly-burly now He shakes the green bough in his hand. And Betty o'er and o'er has told And Betty's most especial charge, N |