But misery overcame his heart, For all was waste and war within; And rushing forward with a leap, O’er crags a hundred fathoms steep, He plunged into the linn. We found him when the morning sun Shone brightly from the eastern sky; Upon his back he was afloat―― His hat was sailing like a boat―― His staff was found on high. Oh reckless woman, Susan Foy, To leave the poor, old, loving man, And with a soldier, young and gay, Thus harlot-like to run away To India or Japan. Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold; Will Adze he made a coffin neat, We placed him in it head and feet, And laid him in the mould! WILLIAM MAGINN. ――――:o:―――― FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH. There is a river clear and fair, ’Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there―― It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on a turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow. The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they’d nothing else to do, But ever to be growing. The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately stems so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaft,―― And when the wind blows loud and keen, I’ve seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee―― Wagging their heads in mockery. Fix’d are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river’s brink, And of the living waters drink. There’s little Will, a five year’s child―― He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild. It is a very joy:―― He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose, The blue belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem. And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature’s rearing? A thing beyond the world’s control―― A living vegetable soul,―― No human sorrow fearing. It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow tree, His brother trees among. He’d be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long. This parody was written by Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe, and is included in her “Literary Remains,” published in 1876 by B. M. Pickering, London. In a foot note to the parody it is stated that a distinguished lady friend, and admirer, of Wordsworth thought it beautiful and was surprised that he had never shown it to her.