But for the child, the sightless boy,
It is the triumph of his joy!
The bravest traveller in balloon,
Mounting as if to reach the moon,

Was never half so bless'd.

And let him, let him go his way,
Alone, and innocent, and gay!
For, if good angels love to wait
On the forlorn unfortunate,

This child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament,

Which from the crowd on shore was sent,

The cries which broke from old and young
In Gaelic,' or the English tongue,

Are stifled-all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew

A boat is ready to pursue;

And from the shore their course they take,

And swiftly down the running lake

They follow the blind boy.

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But soon they move with softer pace;
So have ye seen the fowler chase
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast

A youngling of the wild-duck's nest,
With deftly-lifted oar.

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Or as the wily sailors crept

To seize (while on the deep it slept)

The hapless creature which did dwell,

Erewhile within the dancing shell,

They steal upon their prey.

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With sound the least that can be made,
They follow, more and more afraid,

More cautious as they draw more near;

But in his darkness he can hear,

And guesses their intent.

1 The language of the Highlanders.

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"Lei-gha-Lei-gha!" he then cried out,
"Lei-gha-Lei-gha!" with eager shout;
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,
And what he meant was, “Keep away,
And leave me to myself!"

Alas! and when he felt their hands-
You've often heard of magic wands,
That with a motion overthrow
A palace of the proudest show,

Or melt it into air :

So all his dreams—that inward light

With which his soul had shone so bright,

All vanish'd ;—'twas a heartfelt cross

To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice,

With which the very hills rejoice :
'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly,
Have watch'd the event, and now can see

That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land,
Full sure they were a happy band,

Which, gathering round, did on the banks

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Of the great water give God thanks,
And welcomed the poor child.

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Rejoiced when waking she espies,

The child; when she can trust her eyes,

And touches the blind boy.

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She led him home, and wept amain,

When he was in the house again :
Tears flow'd in torrents from her eyes,
She kiss'd him-how could she chastise?
She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved

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The perilous deep, the boy was saved :
And, though his fancies had been wild,

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Yet he was pleased and reconciled
To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland dell
Still do they keep the turtle shell;
And long the story will repeat
Of the blind boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved.

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WORDSWORTH.

POEM OF THE FANCY.

A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill
Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound :
Then-all at once the air was still,

And showers of hailstones patter'd round.
Where leafless oaks tower'd high above,
I sat within an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er,
And all the year the bower is green.
But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The wither'd leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze-no breath of air-
Yet here, and there, and everywhere
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,

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The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
As if with pipes and music rare,
Some Robin Goodfellow were there,
And all those leaves in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.

WORDSWORTH.

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ.

GIRT round with rugged mountains
The fair Lake Constance1 lies;
In her blue heart reflected,

Shine back the starry skies;
And watching each white cloudlet

Float silently and slow,

You think a piece of heaven
Lies on our earth below.

Midnight is there and Silence,

Enthroned in heaven, looks down

Upon her own calm mirror,

Upon a sleeping town;

For Bregenz,2 that quaint city

Upon the Tyrol shore,

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Has stood above Lake Constance

A thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers

Upon their rocky steep

Have cast their trembling shadow

For ages on the deep;

Mountain and lake and valley

A sacred legend know,

Of how the town was saved one night,
Three hundred years ago.

1 A lake to the north-east of Switzerland.

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2 A town in that part of Austria called the Tyrol, bordering on the south-eastern end of Lake Constance.

Nor asked for rest or change;

Her friends seemed no more new ones,

Her speech seemed no more strange ; And when she led her cattle

To pasture every day,

She ceased to look and wonder
On which side Bregenz lay.

She spoke no more of Bregenz
With longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seemed faded

In a deep mist of years.
She heeded not the rumours
Of Austrian war and strife;
Each day she rose contented,
To the calm toils of life.

Yet, when her master's children

Would clustering round her stand, She sang them the old ballads

Of her own native land;

And when at morn and evening

She knelt before God's throne,

The accents of her childhood

Rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley

More peaceful year by year;
When suddenly strange portents
Of some great deed seemed near.

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