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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 stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed.

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.

Away she goes 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.

Wordsworth.

STRAY PLEASURES.

"Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."

By their floating mill,

That lies dead and still,

Behold yon prisoners three,

The miller with two dames, on the breast of the Thames !

The platform is small, but gives room for all; And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their mill where it floats,

To their house and their mill tethered fast:

To the small wooden isle where, their work

to beguile,

They from morning to even take whatever is given ;

And many a blithe day they have past.

In sight of the spires,

All alive with the fires

Of the sun going down to his rest, In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, there are three, as jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Men and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the reel,

And their music's a prey which they seize : It plays not for them,-what matter? 'tis theirs ; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,

While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee !

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall

find:

Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,

Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

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