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Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy?

       It is no goblin, ‘tis no ghost,

       ’Tis he whom you so long have lost,

       He whom you love, your idiot boy.

      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 she’s 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, she’s happy there.

       She is uneasy every where;

       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 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 toss’d 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.

LOVE.

       Table of Contents

      By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

      All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights,

       Whatever stirs this mortal Frame,

       All are but Ministers of Love,

       And feed his sacred flame.

      Oft in my waking dreams do I

       Live o’er again that happy hour,

       When midway on the Mount I lay

       Beside the Ruin’d Tower.

      The Moonshine stealing o’er the scene

       Had blended with the Lights of Eve;

       And she was there, my Hope, my Joy,

       My own dear Genevieve!

      She lean’d against the Armed Man,

       The Statue of the Armed Knight:

       She stood and listen’d to my Harp

       Amid the ling’ring Light.

      Few Sorrows hath she of her own,

       My Hope, my Joy, my Genevieve!

       She loves me best, whene’er I sing

       The Songs, that make her grieve.

      I play’d a soft and doleful Air,

       I sang an old and moving Story —

       An old rude Song that fitted well

       The Ruin wild and hoary.

      She listen’d with a flitting Blush,

       With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;

       For well she knew, I could not choose

       But gaze upon her Face.

      I told her of the Knight, that wore

       Upon his Shield a burning Brand;

       And that for ten long Years he woo’d

       The Lady of the Land.

      I told her, how he pin’d: and, ah!

       The low, the deep, the pleading tone,

       With which I sang another’s Love,

      

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