Vain thought! yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the poet bless, Who, pouring here a _later_ ditty, Could find no refuge from distress, But in the milder grief of pity. Remembrance! as we float along, For him suspend the dashing oar, And pray that never child of Song May know his freezing sorrows more. How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended! --The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest powers attended. [5] [Footnote 5: Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.] THE IDIOT BOY. _The IDIOT BOY_. 'Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night, The moon is up--the sky is blue, The owlet in the moonlight air, He shouts from nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! --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? Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her idiot boy? There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; Good Betty put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you, But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? The world will say 'tis very idle, Bethink you of the time of night; There's not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. But Betty's bent on her intent, For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, As if her very life would fail. There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess. And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale, What must be done? what will betide? And Betty from the lane has fetched Her pony, that is mild and good, Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood. And he is all in travelling trim, And by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has up upon the saddle set, The like was never heard of yet, Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. And he must post without delay Across the bridge that's in the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale.