—When he found she'd levanted, the Count of Alsace At first turn'd remarkably red in the face; He anathematised, with much unction and grace, Every soul who came near, and consign'd the whole race Of runaway girls to a very warm place; With a frightful grimace He gave orders for chase; His vassals set off at a deuce of a pace, And of all whom they met, high or low, Jack or Jill, Ask'd, "Pray have you seen anything of Odille?"—
Now I think I've been told,—for I'm no sporting man,— That the "knowing-ones" call this by far the best plan, "Take the lead and then keep it!"—that is if you can.— Odille thought so too, so she set off and ran, Put her best leg before, Starting at score, As I said some lines since, from that little back door, And not being miss'd until half after four, Had what hunters call "law" for a good hour and more; Doing her best, Without stopping to rest, Like "young Lochinvar who came out of the West." "'Tis done!—I am gone!—over briar, brook, and rill! They'll be sharp lads who catch me!" said young Miss Odille.
But you've all read in Æsop, or Phædrus, or Gay, How a tortoise and hare ran together one day; How the hare, making play, "Progress'd right slick away," As "them tarnation chaps" the Americans say; While the tortoise, whose figure is rather outré For racing, crawl'd straight on, without let or stay, Having no post-horse duty or turnpikes to pay, Till, ere noon's ruddy ray Changed to eve's sober grey, Though her form and obesity caused some delay, Perseverance and patience brought up her lee-way, And she chased her fleet-footed "praycursor" until She o'ertook her at last;—so it fared with Odille!
For although, as I said, she ran gaily at first, And showed no inclination to pause, if she durst; She at length felt opprest with the heat, and with thirst, Its usual attendant; nor was that the worst, Her shoes went down at heel; at last one of them burst. Now a gentleman smiles At a trot of ten miles; But not so the Fair; then consider the stiles, And as then ladies seldom wore things with a frill Round the ankle, these stiles sadly bother'd Odille.
Still, despite all the obstacles placed in her track, She kept steadily on, though the terrible crack In her shoe made of course her progression more slack, Till she reach'd the Swartz Forest (in English the Black); I cannot divine How the boundary line Was pass'd which is somewhere there form'd by the Rhine— Perhaps she'd the knack To float o'er on her back— Or, perhaps, cross'd the old bridge of boats at Brisach, (Which Vauban, some years after, secured from attack By a bastion of stone which the Germans call "Wacke,") All I know is, she took not so much as a snack, Till, hungry and worn, feeling wretchedly ill, On a mountain's brow sank down the weary Odille.
I said on its "brow," but I should have said "crown," For 'twas quite on the summit, bleak, barren, and brown, And so high that 'twas frightful indeed to look down Upon Friburg, a place of some little renown, That lay at its foot; but imagine the frown That contracted her brow, when full many a clown She perceived coming up from that horrid post-town. They had follow'd her trail, And now thought without fail, As little boys say, to "lay salt on her tail;" While the Count, who knew no other law but his will, Swore that Herman that evening should marry Odille.
Alas, for Odille! poor dear! what could she do? Her father's retainers now had her in view, As she found from their raising a joyous halloo; While the Count, riding on at the head of his crew, In their snuff-colour'd doublets and breeches of blue, Was huzzaing and urging them on to pursue.— What, indeed, could she do? She very well knew If they caught her how much she should have to go through; But then—she'd so shocking a hole in her shoe! And to go further on was impossible;—true, She might jump o'er the precipice;—still there are few In her place, who could manage their courage to screw Up to bidding the world such a sudden adieu:— Alack! how she envied the birds as they flew; No Nassau balloon, with its wicker canoe, Came to bear her from him she loath'd worse than a Jew; So she fell on her knees in a terrible stew, Crying "Holy St. Ermengarde! Oh, from these vermin guard Her whose last hope rests entirely on you;— Don't let papa catch me, dear Saint!—rather kill At once, sur-le-champ, your devoted Odille!"
It's delightful to see those who strive to oppress Get baulk'd when they think themselves sure of success. The Saint came to the rescue!—I fairly confess I don't see, as a Saint, how she well could do less Than to get such a votary out of her mess. Odille had scarce closed her pathetic address, When the rock, gaping wide as the Thames at Sheerness, Closed again, and secured her within its recess, In a natural grotto, Which puzzled Count Otto, Who could not conceive where the deuce she had got to. 'Twas her voice!—but 'twas Vox et præterea Nil! Nor could any one guess what was gone with Odille!
Then burst from the mountain a splendour that quite Eclipsed, in its brilliance, the finest Bude light, And there stood St. Ermengarde, drest all in white, A palm-branch in her left hand, her beads in her right; While, with faces fresh gilt, and with wings burnish'd bright, A great many little boys' heads took their flight Above and around to a very great height, And seem'd pretty lively considering their plight, Since every one saw, With amazement and awe, They could never sit down, for they hadn't de quoi.— All at the sight, From the knave to the knight, Felt a very unpleasant sensation, call'd fright; While the Saint, looking down, With a terrible frown, Said, "My Lords, you are done most remarkably brown!— I am really ashamed of you both;—my nerves thrill At your scandalous conduct to poor, dear Odille!
"Come, make yourselves scarce!—it is useless to say, You will gain nothing here by a longer delay. 'Quick! Presto! Begone!' as the conjurors say; For as to the Lady, I've stow'd her away In this hill, in a stratum of London blue clay; And I shan't, I assure you, restore her to-day Till you faithfully promise no more to say 'Nay,' But declare, 'If she will be a nun, why she may.' For this you've my word, and I never yet broke it, So put that in your pipe, my Lord Otto, and smoke it!— One hint to your vassals,—a month at 'the Mill' Shall be nuts to what they'll get who worry Odille!"